


A Son by Any Other Name

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Fractured Fairy Tale, Obscenely long sunsets, really a great deal of repeated phrases, severe lack of brotherly communication, some sort of backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 56
Words: 83,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed as a child, Scott Tracy lives a life in which everyone he encounters must follow all of his given commands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wish of Good Fortune

Once upon a time, in an era of dragons and witches and sword fights, there lived a king and a queen who ruled over a tiny island at the center of the sea.  The kingdom of Melchior, ruled by House Tracy, sits on the sunset, hardly visible from the larger, wealthier kingdoms not far out, but make no mistake—as is often the case with small packages, there is more than meets the eye.  

The king and queen rule firm, but fair, ensuring happiness, honest work, and a loaf of bread on the table of each family in their villages.  The queen visits each week, with the gowns and coats they no longer wear, distributing them to any and all who ask.  The king meets with the bankers every fortnight, discussing the future of that tiny island at the center of the sea.

This week, however, is different than the rest.  This fortnight, a prince has been born.

The crier had been sent to the square as soon as the news had been made available.  Bets were settled in the local taverns—boy or girl, the name: Scott.  Drinks were had all around as the crier read from his scroll, “There will be a ball held at the palace, precisely three sunsets from this night.  We will open our gates and invite you all to meet our son—your new prince—Scott Carpenter Tracy.”

And so, dressed up in the queen’s gowns and the king’s coats, the public travel to the top of the tallest cliff with hopes of meeting the newest child on the island.  The queen serves only the best food, the king hires only the finest musicians, and they reign over their kingdom as happy villagers dance sunset into moonlight.  Merriment and jubilance fill those great stone walls, celebration and warmth and then—

The doors open once more, blown apart by a breeze coated in ice and malicious intentions.  In steps a man with a cape black as night, only a slick smile visible beneath his dark hood.  His footsteps echo across stone, silencing the music, the chatter, the happiness with each steady _clunk_.  In his cradle, the prince cries.  

The cloak shimmers as he moves, all of the beauty from the night’s stars trapped upon the shoulders of a selfish man.  He puts a hand to his hood, pulling it from his serpentine eyes.  When he lets it fall, the cloak pulls itself apart, thread by thread, until there is nothing left in its place except for a man as cold-blooded as the snake curled around his glowing scepter.  “A party?” he says.  “And I wasn’t invited?”

“Gaat,” the king snarls.

As if he knows, the prince cries louder at the name, and his mother rushes to hold him.  Gaat grins again.  “Ahh, so this is the young prince I have heard so much about.”

Gaat closes the distance between him and the boy.  His serpent shakes its tail, but in his mother’s arms, young Scott feels no fear.  “Brave little tyke,” says Gaat.  “He’ll make a fine knight, don’t you think, Lucille?”

“I’d spit on you Gaat,” says the queen, “but I fear giving you the impression that you deserve even that much.”

“Unkind words like that make me glad I didn’t marry you.”

“ _I_ didn’t marry _you_ ,” she reminds him.  

“Very true,” says Gaat, and with that, another grin.  He turns to the crowd—to the loyal subjects of a kingdom that is not his own.  “You did not marry me,” he begins, “despite the agreement between the kingdoms, and why was that?”

He turns, as if giving her a chance to answer.  She stands, chin up, with no intention of playing his game, and so Gaat speaks to the crowd once more.  “Because you fell _in love_ —and with a knight, no less.  You could have had a king!”

“I do have a king,” she hisses.  “And now a prince.”

“Yes a _prince_ ,” says Gaat, turning back to the boy, closer and closer, until the queen pulls away.  “The princess and a knight, with their charming, _darling_ little boy.”

There’s the sound of silver sliding into sight, a gasp from the crowd, and in the blink of an eye the king has his sword to Gaat’s throat.  “I know not the reason you came here,” he growls, low and promising, “but you will not harm my son.”

Gaat’s free hand is up in a surrender, but his smile grows impossibly wider.  “ _Harm_ your son?  Heaven’s no.  I do not wish to harm him.  In fact, I wish nothing but the best for him.”  The serpent slides up the man’s arm, across his shoulders, and the two of them—man and snake—cast their eyes on the young boy.  “I wish for him to live a life only of wealth.  I wish that he rules the kingdom as soon as he possibly can.  And I wish for him a controlled life, in which everyone”—a glance at the king—“follows his  _every_ command.”

The sword is still at his throat, but Gaat laughs regardless, stuck on a joke only he knows.  Perhaps if someone had looked, they would have noticed the scepter glowing just a little bit brighter, would have noticed Gaat’s pupils turn just a little bit slimmer.  “I wish all of this for your little boy, until there are no more stars in the sky.  Until the moon no longer lights the sea.”

Thread by shimmering thread, the cloak forms itself once more.  Guards grab at each of Gaat’s arms and the man laughs louder, louder, until his voice can be heard from the docks.  Until the guards escort him back to his own kingdom, and the laughs finally fade.

And no one on that tiny island at the center of the sea knew any better.


	2. A Fib of Beating Hearts

“Don’t you ever get lonely in here?”

There’s a window overlooking the water, crisscrossed with wrought-iron diamonds and dusted in sea salt that accumulates within every little corner it can find.  When the sun rises, the warmth bleeds through to the wooden floors and come noon, when the sun can no longer squeeze into his library, the fireplace is enchanted so that it flames without firewood.  He is surrounded by sculptures from the finest artisans, tapestries that tell a new story each times he looks at them, and the largest library in the south is at his complete disposal.  There are worse places, John thinks, for a man to be trapped.

“How can I?” he asks.  “With you moping around here day and night.”

“Princesses do not _mope_ ,” she tells him.  Her fingers linger on the spine of each book as she wanders through his shelves, her skirt hiked up.  She had kicked her shoes off ages ago, leaving them by the fire in hopes that they might burn. “And I am not here nearly often enough.”

“Your kingdom calls you the Lost Princess, you’re here so often.”

“And what about all the times I’m not here, hmm?” she says.  “What do you do then?”

“I have other company.”

As if waiting for her cue—which she very well could have been—a white light flutters into sight, struggling to carry a book that is at least four times her size.  She nearly drops it once, just about taking herself down with it, but soon the little light hovers over the desk, drops the book on its leather binding, and it opens to the exact information that John had asked for.  “Thank you, EOS.”

The princess slides across the floor in her stockings until she is just behind him.  “You can’t honestly be referring to your little fairy friend, can you?” she says, looking over his shoulder to share his words.  “She doesn’t even speak.”

With this, the young fairy turns a bright, blazing red and stomps her foot atop the desk.  “That’s what I like most about her,” John says, the fairy fading back to white.  “Perhaps you should take note, Penelope.”

“And perhaps you should get out more,” she says, flipping his book shut with a satisfying snap.  Dust plumes, catching the light of the sun, and John sneezes.  Penelope rolls her eyes at him.  “Honestly, John.  This place is going to turn you ill.  Have you even _tried_ leaving?”

John does not tell her about his accidental three-day fast, left forgotten and hungry in a room he can’t leave.  John does not tell her the horrors one faces when they wake up to the same four walls day after day after day, or just what kind of tricks the mind can play when they spend their entire life in a forest of bookcases.  John has tried leaving.  Plenty of times.

_And don’t come out until you know what happened to Mother._

So Scott had said.  So it shall be.  “Isn’t there another brother you could be bothering?” John says, peeling the book back open.  “Gordon’s sailing in today.  If I recall, you quite like bothering him.”

At this, the princess turns rigid.  The vengeful fairy turns green and sticks her tongue out.  “Well.  That is the first I’m hearing of this.”

It is not, John knows, the first she’s hearing of this, but he’s willing to go along with it.  For the sake of an old friend.  For the sake of his brother—for two of his brothers, really.  “Yes.  He’s sailing in tonight.  For the _wedding._ ”

The word is a church bell, her posture turning tall, her head bowed, as if she’s ready to confess all of her sins, then and there.  “Yes, well,” she says.  “Good for him.  Scott will be—”

“I don’t think he’s sailing in for Scott.”

Just like that, the church bells cease, leaving the princess with the devil in her eyes and a snake on her tongue.  “Scott is a fine man, John.”

John sits back in his seat, eyes locked on her.  “No one is arguing that point.”

“He will be a great ruler.  A magnificent father.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this is my library,” he tells her.  “And in my library, we speak only of fact.”

She feels her pulse banging against her eardrums, feels herself turn as red as the little fairy.  If she were a proper princess, she might excuse herself.  If she were a proper princess, she might hold herself a little bit taller, reign in her emotions a little bit tighter, and not let anyone read John’s unspoken words in her expression.  All at once she’s horrified and concerned and waiting for someone to spit out the word _love._

And then she’s angry.

“It is my duty and my birthright to marry your brother,” she tells him, tall once more.  “In three days, I will stand on your castle steps, I will make my vow before God, and then Prince Scott will be crowned King Scott, and I will be his queen.”  She slaps his book shut one more time, demanding all of his attention.  “Our two kingdoms will be united against Kingdom Balthazar, enabling us to put an end to that terrible King Gaat.  And if you have any doubts about me or my betrothed, I recommend saying them now, before I rule over even you.”

John looks up at her.  She sees more of those words he won’t say, but she doesn’t dare ask what they are.  The last thing she needs to hear right now is John’s fact.  “No doubts, _Your Majesty_.”

“I’m not a queen yet, John.”

“Then perhaps you should remember that—oh and do put your shoes on before you storm out, Penelope.  I can’t imagine what your father would say if he knew you walked around so scandalously.”

“The day my father has to wear heels is the day he may throw the first stone,” she says, sliding the boots back on.

“Now that, I’d pay to see.”

“I’m storming out now,” she announces.

“Say hi to Gordon for me.”


	3. The Luck of Prince Charming

He is known throughout the three kingdoms as Prince Charming.  The oldest, the wisest, the _wealthiest_ Tracy prince, with an inheritance to the throne, an army at his command, and a smile that could melt even the sharpest blades of the strongest swords.  His dreams come to him in mountain ranges that need climbing, in deserts that need exploring, in new worlds that demand to be seen and touched and tasted, and he is not afraid to share these dreams with every starry-eyed maiden who dares dance with him at the countless dinners and various celebrations he is made to attend.

His mornings are spent in the garden, during which the women of Kingdom Melchior are likely to peek over the hedges in hopes that they may catch a glimpse of the prince as he works.  He wields his sword with as much confidence as his father before him, willing to lead vicious battalions to their bloody victories if ever the need should arise.  Each strike of the blade reminds onlookers of the power he holds—of the sheer strength that keeps their kingdom alive—and they allow themselves to think, for just a moment, that Prince Scott could singlehandedly bring House Gaat to its knees.  

But that’s not the important part.  The important part is that he practices without his shirt on.

Afternoons bring with them no curious onlookers, but rather countless meetings with his council.  He stands tall at the head of the table, born to be there, and rules as his parents once had—firm, but fair—striving for honest work and a loaf of bread for all, just as each man had been promised long ago.  It is harder now, certainly, ever since Gaat ended all trade with Kingdom Balthazar, but he will make do.  He has to.  It is true that his dreams hold adventure, but his nightmares are most certainly made up of crumbling kingdoms.  Fact is, the small island at the center of the sea is beginning to shake.

So it’s luck, really, that the third and the oldest kingdom would have a daughter.  Luck, that Scott is only four years her senior.  It is luck that Kingdom Caspar, the only one of the three kingdoms connected to the mainland, has also met a great deal of injustice when it comes to Gaat, and that King Creighton-Ward had insisted upon an alliance between the two kingdoms.  Yes.  It would appear as though Prince Scott has had a disordinate amount of _luck_ on his side, but that is just how things tend to go with Prince Scott.

Well.  He can pretend it’s luck, anyways.

There are no windows in this part of the palace—just stone.  Stone staircases and stone walls.  Stone arches that look down upon an ornate stone floor.  The only light comes from flames that ignite in steady intervals down the endless hallways, charring the stone at their backs until it is as dark as the shadows they fail to fill.  It’s too dark in this hallway—too empty.  He swears this hallway didn’t always feel so empty.

And then, just as he thinks it, the hallway is no longer empty.  He feels himself run into something—some _one_ —and he grabs hold of her before she can fall.  It’s instinct, like breathing, like a heartbeat, to save the damsel in distress, but then he realizes that the woman in his arms is anything but.  “Prince Scott!”

If he had known he’d be in the presence of a princess, he probably would have put his shirt back on before he left the garden.  “Really, Princess.  I wish you’d just call me Scott.”

“Hmm.  Old habits,” she says.  

She’s beautiful, really.  Skin as pale as snow and a smile that never fades, but Scott most admires the fact that she speaks her mind and more importantly, that she speaks it _well_.  When Penelope gives a command, her people follow without question, and she doesn’t even need a curse to do it.  Is there anything more beautiful than that?  Is there anything more beautiful than a life without the curse?

Her eyes, maybe, but he might never know.  Her eyes never meet his long enough for him to get a good look.

Only after she clears her throat does he realize that he is still holding on to her.  He lets go as quickly as he had grabbed on, because if there’s anything that Scott has learned over the years, it’s that sometimes people don’t want the same things he does.  Sometimes, he doesn’t have the right.  

It’s his turn to clear his throat now, just because it seems like the only thing to do.  “Have all your invitations been delivered to your kingdom?”

Warm light flickers across golden hair as she nods, eyes fixed on a ribbon that crosses the top of her skirt.  There’s a fine, rhythmic motion as careful fingers smooth the silk, over and over.  “Yes.  Your men were very helpful, thank you.”

“It was our pleasure,” he tells her with a smile, and it’s the truth.  Because of the deliveries, thirteen fathers and five brothers had found honest work, even if only for a week.  “All of your guests have safe passage across the sea?”

“They will,” she assures him.  “We are still working at that.”

“Gordon sails in today.”

At this, finally, her eyes meet his.  “So everyone keeps saying.”

“I only mean that he might help.  And we can trust him to return everyone home safely.  He’s never lost a man at sea and takes”—a laugh, made up of gravel and good intentions—“a _great_ deal of pride in that.  I just don’t think that the passage of your guests is something that you want to worry about on your… wedding night.”

The words echo off stone and the hallway feels empty again.  Each of them watches the other, waiting for the meaning to dissolve.  They stand, together, in front of the king’s suite—once his father’s and in three days’ time, his.  The doorway is too dark.  Too cold.  The servants have done a good enough job keeping the cobwebs away, but still it feels abandoned, begging for fresh blood.

In three days’ time, they will share that suite.  In three days’ time, they will be king and queen.

“I’ll talk to Gordon,” he says.

“No.”  Perhaps she’s too quick, but Scott doesn’t have a chance to notice before she tacks an afterthought onto that single, definitive word.  “I really must be getting home.  A seamstress is putting the final touches on my gown and I—”

“Why didn’t you say so?  We have seamstresses here that would have—”

“I must employ my own people as well, Scott.”

He smiles.  “I like how that sounds when you say it.”

She smiles back.  “I must be getting home.  Gordon will take me across the sea and we’ll have a talk.  Then I will see you all tomorrow for the memorial.”

And just like that, the smile is gone.  It is Scott who won’t meet her eyes this time.  “Speaking of, you haven’t seen Virgil, have you?  I’ve been looking for him all day.”

She shakes her head.  “No.  I was with—”

“John, yeah I figured.”  He looks back to her now and there’s a moment—one single moment—when she swears she sees something that isn’t all that charming.  Those are the moments she likes best.  The ones without all of the princely façades.

He leaves a kiss on her cheek, quick.  Harmless.  She doesn’t see it coming and she has to admit that at least Scott will keep her on toes.  “Penelope,” he says, testing out the name.  She gives him a smile, because after all, there are only three days left.  He takes her hands in his, looks her dead in the eye.  “Have a good evening.”

And so Scott says.  So it shall be.


	4. A Night of Howling Wolves

His torso takes the worst of it, claws striking at chest as if the beast knows of his human heart—as if such a thing doesn’t _belong_ anymore, thumping its way through each and every part of him.  There’s a pulse in his head.  In his neck.  In his shoulders, his gut, his hips, all the way down to his toes.  The beast tears at them all, trying to rip them away—trying to _steal_ them—but his chest?  His chest takes the worst of it.

He should be used to it by now.  He should be prepared for the burn that comes with each new addition to his most private collection, but every time the beast retreats he is tricked into feeling sickly relief, until he is reminded of what gets left behind.

Something’s barking at him and Virgil knows that he’s supposed to recognize it.  He struggles through the sweat and the blood, through the haze that clouds his mind, until finally he’s able to blink his eyes open for just a moment, long enough to catch a glimpse of the pup sitting at his feet.  The wagging tail and panting tongue are a drastic shift from the growling, snarling guard dog Virgil can last remember seeing, but then again, the beast is gone now.  The pup has no reason to growl anymore.  “Hey, Max.”

At the sound of his name, Max jumps up onto all fours and darts to Virgil’s side, leaving licks wherever he can.  Normally Virgil wouldn’t mind, but his shoulders hurt and he’s fairly certain that there’s a sword sticking out of his chest.

“Easy, boy.”  The voice is a summer sun after the longest winter—a warm bath after a long fight.  There is nothing, no one, that Virgil wants to hear more.  “He’s had a long n-night.”

Virgil lets out a long, jagged breath.  “Are you talking to me, or to the dog?”

Hiram pulls his loop of iron keys from his belt and flicks through to the right one.  He’s the only man in existence with that key, and the world is better off for it.  “What’s the difference?” he jokes.  

There’s a click, then the scratch of metal.  The grip around Virgil’s wrist loosens, revealing bright pink gashes in dirt-ground skin.  It’s a tough metal—tougher than any other known to man—specially designed by the smartest stable boy that Virgil’s ever met.  “Don’t move,” Hiram warns.  “You left a p-particularly nasty scratch behind this time.”

“Only one?” he replies.  “That’s gotta be a new— _gah_!”

“I told you not to move.”

Hiram kicks a bucket to Virgil’s side.  Max skitters over to investigate its contents, fresh water from the fountain in the garden, and the dalmatian whimpers like he knows what’s coming.  Hell.  He probably does.  

There is no warning before Hiram brings the cloth to his cut and instantly, any fog still hanging in his head is cleared.  Virgil takes in a tight, strained hiss, sure that he’s forgotten how to breathe, sure that his lungs won’t let him, and Max barks at the gash in Virgil’s side as if he can simply scare it away.  “You and me both, bud,” Virgil tells him.

Hiram rings the cloth over the bucket, the water taking on a faint pink tint.  “We s-simply need to find a solution to this,” he says.  “I cannot keep patching you up each time there’s a full moon.”

Virgil’s laugh is dry.  “Don’t look at me,” he says.  “You’re the brains of this operation.”

“You’re getting stronger,” Hiram points out, bringing the cloth to his chest once more.  “Last night wasn’t even a full transformation and you nearly broke through the chains—”

“So we make stronger chains—”

“The next full moon is on the wedding night, Virgil.”

It is the use of his name without the title of _Prince_ that catches his attention.  Hiram is rarely so insubordinate.  “You will have townsfolk, visiting royalty, your brother’s ent-tire naval fleet— _here_.  All of them within your castle walls.  What happens if I cannot contain you within the stable?”

Virgil looks up at him and Hiram swears that the beast is still alive inside of him.  “You _know_ what happens then.”

He does.  Technically.  They’ve certainly _had_ this conversation before, but they’ve never quite been able to reach an agreement.  “You’re asking me to assassinate my prince,” he says.  “That’s h-hardly a solution that works out for either of us.”

“I’d rather you killed me than _it_ did.”

“I’d rather you not die at all.”

It’s a different sheet of cloth now, long and sheer, which Hiram wraps around Virgil’s torso.  It’s meant to keep the dirt out, meant to keep his skin from splitting any further.  They both know that it won’t stand a chance against the beast, but they try it anyways.  “It’s me or _it_ , Brains,” he says, trying out the nickname.  “Sooner or later, one of us is going to end the other, and I’m not sure that I’m going to win that fight.”

“It’s a dog,” Hiram says, and at the word _dog_ , Max lets out a pleased yelp as though his name’s been called.  “They are loyal, helpful creatures, but not exc-ceptionally clever—arms up.”

“It’s an animal.”  Virgil complies with Hiram’s order, lifting his arms against all the extra weight he seems to hold so that the cloth can hold all the broken pieces of him together.  “It doesn’t have to be clever.  It’ll tear me apart without a second thought.”

“No it won’t.”

“And why not?”

“You’re stronger than it is,” Hiram says, simple.  Scientific.  “And you have more reason to fight.”

He really is the smartest man Virgil knows, because just like that, Virgil is reminded of his brothers.  Of his kingdom.  Of all he has done, will do, and needs to live to see.  Nieces and nephews, maybe children of his own one day, if he can ever conquer his beast—and if he can ever conquer true love, but that is another matter entirely.

But he doesn’t have time to think about that anyways.  The afternoon is starting to turn late, and Virgil has a whole forest to search.  Again.  “How’s Deuce?”

“Somewhat spooked after last night,” Hiram says, “but better.  I t-took her out for a ride this morning, replaced her horseshoes, and fed her those green apples she likes so much.”

“Is she good to ride?”

“She is.  You’re not.”

Virgil’s laugh returns, cut short when he tries to stand.  “Until there are no more stars in the sky.  Until the moon no longer lights the sea.”

“A cursed werewolf,” says Hiram with the shake of his head.  “No wonder I d-don’t understand you.”

Max barks in agreement, bouncing at Virgil’s feet and waiting to play.  Virgil’s just about to find a stick to toss when he freezes at the sound of a third voice.  “Virgil!”

If Virgil wasn’t tense before, he is now.  Scott’s voice waivers, emotional, and there’s nothing more dangerous than Scott’s emotions.  Nothing more dangerous than those moments when he loses track of what he’s saying.  “God, I’ve been looking for you all morning—what the hell happened to you?  You look like you’ve been stabbed.”

“Fell off his horse, Prince Scott,” Hiram answers.  Even his excuses are well-prepared.  “I p-patched him up.  No worries.”

“You’re sure?” Scott says.  “You look like something chewed you up and spat you out.”

Hiram glances at Virgil, then back to Scott.  It’s Virgil who answers this time.  “I’ll be fine.  What do you need, Scott?  And choose your words carefully.”

Scott’s shoulders sink at this, as they usually do whenever the curse is mentioned.  Guilt, maybe.  Embarrassment, more likely.  “I was _wondering_ ,” he says, emphasizing the option, “if you wanted to play at the memorial tomorrow.”

Virgil’s jaw sets, a bite worse than his bark.  “I don’t play anymore.”

Scott throws him one of those smiles—one of those that feel like flowers smell, sweet and lively and pleasant.  He puts his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, and Virgil has to hold back a howl of pain.  “I know you don’t, Virg, but I just figured that since it’s for them—”

“Ask John, Scott,” he says, pulling away.  “I don’t play anymore.  Unless you’re going to  _make_ me.”

There’s a moment when both princes acknowledge that he could.  That it would only take a few words for this conversation would be over.

But Scott doesn’t let it happen.  “No.  No, I’ll ask John—hey, as long as I’m out here, you didn’t happen to hear howling last night, did you?”

It’s a brisk, skillful change of subject that is meant to drain the tension from the air, but it has the opposite effect.  Virgil and Hiram exchange a single look before Hiram says, “No wolves out in this direction.  M-must have been Max.”

The dog barks at his name one more.  

Scott doesn’t look like he believes this fib as much as he had believed the last.  “It was so strange.  It didn’t sound like Max.  I thought for sure that the wolves had gotten to the horses again.”

“The man said there’s no wolves, Scott,” Virgil tells him.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a forest to search.”


	5. A Night of Damned Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mildy nsfw. Tread with caution.

It is said to be bad luck, allowing a woman to board a ship.  It is said to displease the gods, to bring about storms of immeasurable magnitudes, to cause such catastrophe that entire ships of terrified men can justify throwing someone to a cold, miserable death in order to appease the powers that be.  According the the men at sea, women are simply bad luck.

This is untrue.  Penelope has learned a thing or two about bad luck and her presence upon a docked ship does not meet the qualifications.  Bad luck is being a brother to someone who is cursed.  Bad luck is marrying a man for whom his every wish is a damning command.  It is _not_ bad luck for a princess to step aboard a military vessel which her father has paid for.  The only immeasurable storm this woman brings is the one that’s been brewing in her chest for years.

The sailors hoot and holler, in the way that all men do when the months at sea melt into wishful thinking, until they’re cut off by a long, piercing whistle that echoes straight towards the sunset.  “Get ahold of yourselves—mangy mongrels, thinkin’ the whole world belongs to you.  Get h’out of me way.”

He’s the only man who dares approach her outside of his own dreams, arms covered in tattoos—fresh and faded alike—as he holds one out to her.  “Your ‘ighness.”

Every time she sees him, she swears that he’s added more wrinkles to his smile, that his eyes are just a little bit greyer than before.  He seems to collect all of the ocean’s cloudy days in his hair while the sun settles on permanently red-rimmed cheekbones, all those years on a ship flawlessly weaving their way into his appearance.  “Parker.”

She takes his arm and lets him guide her through the riff raff.  “How’s your father?” he asks, voice low.  Private.

“Splendid,” she says.  “He tells me to send you his best.”

“Much h’appreciated,” Parker says, but when he looks at her it’s obvious that there’s something else on his mind.  “So much excitement, all this wedding business.”

She smiles, prim and proper.  “Well, it’s a very exciting time for our kingdoms.”

“It’s s’posed to be exciting for you, too.”

There is a very short list of people who really, truly know the princess and, whether she likes it or not, Parker is at the very top of it.  Perhaps this is why she makes no attempt to lie.  Perhaps this is why she doesn’t protest.  In the end, she will always be transparent this particular man and in the end, lying will always be a wasted effort with him.  “I came to see the Prince, actually,” she says.  “About safe passage across the sea.”

“Certainly, Your ‘ighness,” he says, and only then does she realize that he must’ve already known that, because they’re just outside the great cabin.  “I’ll stand guard out here.”

Not a single man dares to comment on the implications that arise when a woman enters the Captain’s cabin.  Any soul who wishes to keep his job is best served by forgetting the moment they saw the pink dress disappear behind closed doors.  When it comes to the royal families, it is generally best to keep one’s nose down—to hoot and holler, but never speak a word.  Odds are that it’s nothing.  Odds are that the princess needs a ride home, that she came to retrieve the orders that she had placed before they left, that there are wedding plans to be made.

But then again, Princess Penelope Creighton-Ward has always defied the odds.

The staircase is only made up of a few steps, but it feels like a mountain, cold and steep and dark.  There’s a single candle flickering at its base and before she can stop herself, she wonders what would happen if the whole ship went up in flames.  Would the wood burn, despite the riches it holds?  Would all of the intricate carvings melt out of the gold?  Red rugs from Persia ignited by wine from Italy.  Treasures from every civilization, gone.  What would it feel like if the world caught fire?

One look at him and, hell.  She just might know.

It’s his silhouette she sees first, cast against an entire wall of windows, darkness against a horizon painted in golds and violets and rose.  His shoulders look broader in uniform and his waist, thinner.  All of him looks thinner, actually, and she wonders if he’s been eating.  If his crew has been treating him well.  

And then his voice.  She hears it in John sometimes, hears it in Virgil much more, but it’s never the same.  It’s never _him_ speaking to _her_ in that way that only he can.  “Parker, I told you.  If my brothers want to talk to me then they can wait until I’ve been docked for more than three seconds to—”

When he turns, the candlelight catches his eyes first, sparking them like embers that have been burning for days.  She can’t look away, watching as his expression transforms from annoyed little brother to… Gordon.

Her.  Gordon.

“Penelope,” he says, the word barely more than a breath.  “I thought you were—”

“I know.”

There’s a desk between them.  A rug between them.  A marriage between them, but he’s  _here_.  He’s home.  “How’s your father?” he says.  “How’s Scott?”

“Seems like the sort of thing you should ask Scott.”

There is no tease in her voice.  No playfulness.  This isn’t like talking to John—isn’t  _anything_ like talking to John.  Her words come out as a dismissal and an inconvenience, accidental but not at all unwelcome.  This isn’t what she wants to be talking about and in fact, she’d rather not be _talking_ at all.

There’s a chest between them, filled with treasures of great value, certainly.  There’s a chess table between them, with ornate game pieces and marble checkers.  “How were your travels?” she wonders.

“Fine,” he says, nothing more.

So often he will come home with stories—with great tales of the sea and all that can be said for life without land.  It is one of the things she most likes about his ventures home, listening to him talk as the night goes on, as his excitement turns to exhaustion and his words fumble into existence.  Gordon without a story to tell is Gordon without a soul, and so it’s strange to be standing there, her eyes unable to leave his, with nothing to say.  There’s a silence between them now, thick and wary and distant.

Until there _isn’t_.

Maybe she takes the first step.  Maybe he does.  Whatever the case, they close the distance and there’s nothing between them now.  For just a moment, the pair convinces themselves that there never will be again—not a marriage, not a kingdom, not even an ocean.  She’s going to kiss him until she can’t anymore.  He’s going to kiss her until she won’t kiss him back.  They’re going to spend days, evenings, nights, with his hands in her hair and her hands on his hips and _happy_.  God, they’re going to be happy even if it causes kingdoms to crumble.

“I missed you,” he says, in all the spaces meant for catching his breath.

“I know.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I know.”

He’s got calluses on his hands that weren’t there before, rough and broken against her skin.  His hair is longer and he’s gotten taller and all she can notice are the _changes_.  So many changes.  How many months has it been?  She has to learn everything all over again—has to add new words to a language she was once fluent in.  

“The trip was great,” he tells her, mumbling through lips that are otherwise occupied.  “It was—I mean—wow, you are just really going for it aren’t you?”

“Gordon?”

“Hmm.”

“Be quiet.”

There’s no complaint on his end, happy to continue uninterrupted.  The sea is on his skin, salt and sun, each and every touch a wave that knocks her down, again and again, until there’s no more fight in her and she lets him wash her away.  Until she loses track of where she is and how she got here and all the things she’s never supposed to lose track of.

She’s only vaguely aware of his desk hitting her legs—only somewhat conscious of the fact that she’s taller than him now.  All of her attention is stuck on him as his kisses wander from her own, tracing a path along her jaw until he finds her pulse and starts her heart racing.  Sea-scruffed lips settle along her skin, sending shockwaves up and down the ties of a too-tight corset, and suddenly she knows.  She knows that this is how she wants to feel when she stands before her family, her kingdom, her God, and promises to love a man for the rest of her life.

Except this is not the man who she has promised to love for the rest of her life.

“Do you know what gets said,” she asks, “about the men who sail to the far corners of the earth?”

“I thought we were being quiet.”

“They fall,” she says.  “It’s said that they fall, right off the side of the world.”

This, it would seem, is enough to tame the tide, because he pulls away and she’s met with those burning eyes once more.  His hand is in her hair again, different this time, pulling golden curls out of her eyes.  Scott never pulls the curls out of her eyes.  “I’ve been around the world and back, Penelope,” he says, her name like a treasure all its own on his tongue. “The only things that fall are apples and angels.”

“Then what does that make you?”

She watches his smile as it rises and falls, eyes dancing between hers, and she ponders, briefly, what it means to be really, truly damned.  Then she wonders if maybe it’s worth it, but perhaps that is not a decision she should make while her legs are still wrapped around the source of her eternal damnation.   

“I’ll show you, Pen.  I’ll take you with me—wherever you want to go, you say the word and we’ll set sail in the morning.”  It’s not an offer, she knows.  Definitely not.  Offers don’t sound this desperate.  Everything about this is a plea.  “All you have to do is _choose me_.”

And all she wants to do is get closer, hold him tighter, tell him that it’s all going to be okay.  Except she can’t.  Because it won’t be.  “It’s not a matter of choice, Gordon.  You know that.”

“You’re right.  I do know that.”  The way he looks at her, she knows it’s true.  God, has anyone ever looked at a princess with so much admiration in their eyes?  “ _God_ , I absolutely do.”

She watches the words leave his lips, knowing that everything he says is unapologetically honest.  Just like that, it’s to hell with Hell.  Consequences exist only in time, but right here, right now, it’s him.  “I’m walking you straight into damnation, Gordon Tracy.”

“I’m already damned, Penelope,” he says.  “If Hell gets me off this ship, it’s a welcome salvation.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he says.  “As long as it’s with you, I do.”

She tugs at her lip with her top teeth, failing to bite back a smile.  Finally a laugh breaks through, and with one more look at him she turns to the single candle, flickering on the wall, and blows it out with a quick breath.

That’s when he laughs, too.


	6. A Trust in Young Starmappers

There’s a jacket slung across a chair, a dress splayed flat across the rug, and three, frantic knocks on the door of the great cabin.  She rolls over, blinking.  Before anything else, her world is warm next to him, and then it is dark.  So dark that, when she opens her eyes, she sees nothing except for that same wall of windows that had once held a sunset.

It’s made up of wood, glass bordered by curls of gold.  Iron crosses at every length of a hand to form a collection of crisp, orderly squares that line almost the entire back wall.   The moon is nearly full, laying a stripe across broken waters.  It’s hard to tell where waves stop and stars begin, both sea and sky sharing the very same shine.  She loves this big, grand window—loves it with all her heart—and she hates to imagine a life in which she is no longer allowed to view her world through it.

But then a light catches her eye and she’s up and awake all too quickly.  She hears the clatter of footsteps as someone runs down the old wooden steps.  “Gordon,” she hisses, shoving his shoulders.  “Gordon, wake up.”

“Hmm?”

She knows the blond hair like she knows her own heart, knows the blue eyes like she knows her own destiny, but that smile.  That smile belongs to no one else.  “Hello, Princess,” says Alan, the light of the lantern flickering across his face.  “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She closes her eyes, lets a breath fall, then gives Gordon one more shove.  “Gordon, it’s your brother.”

This, finally, sends Gordon shooting upright, his hair stuck in places it shouldn’t be and his eyes barely open.  “What?” he says. “What—who—?”  There’s a pause as Gordon takes in the scene.  Alan waves, and then Gordon promptly returns to his pillow.  “It’s just Alan.”

Alan scoffs.  “ _Just_ Alan, he says—do you see what kind of respect I get around here, Princess?”  He kicks the end of Gordon’s bed.  “Get up, I need your help.”

Gordon’s reply isn’t much more than a mumble.  “Ask for my help in the morning.  You know, _morning_?  When the sun is up?”

“I can’t _wait_ until the sun is up,” Alan tells him.  “That’s kind of the whole point.  I need to show you something right now.  Come on, you’re the only one who will believe me.”

“Just so it’s clear, I don’t believe you,” Gordon says.  “No one does.”

There’s a third, final shove from Penelope who, at this point, is very much wishing that her dress was just a little bit closer.  Within moments she is on the receiving end of a rather grumpy glare from a sleepy Gordon.  “What,” he spits.

“Perhaps you need reminding that my wedding is in three— _two_ days, now.”

“Trust me Pen, no reminder necessary.”

“And that you are _not_  my betrothed.”

He rolls over onto his back.  “Nope,” he says with a few taps on his temple.  “I remember that one just fine, too.”

These are the sorts of moments when it really is too easy to grow impatient with Gordon.  It takes a clever man to command an entire naval fleet, cleverer still to command them as well as he does.  Gordon is not, by any stretch of the word, and idiot, but these are the sort of moments that make her doubt.  “So _perhaps_  you would be well served to be a bit kinder to the boy who has just caught the two of us in a rather compromising situation.”

She can feel the boat as it rocks, rough waters below, but this is Gordon’s home.  He stopped feeling the waves years ago, which might be how he moves so gracefully.  He sets himself up on his elbows, eyes on hers as he moves, trying to figure her out one piece at a time.  “You think he’s going to blackmail us.”

It isn’t a question.  “I think that he could.”

“He can’t,” Gordon says.  She opens her mouth to protest, but Gordon beats her to it and saves them both the argument.  “No, I mean, he actually _can’t—_ don’t you know?”

“Know _what_?”

Now it’s Gordon’s turn to scoff.  “Well what else, Pen?”  He throws an arm out to Alan.  “The kid’s cursed.”

Alan shrugs, simple.  An inescapable truth that he’s long ago come to terms with.  “I’m cursed,” he says.  “I was the first one, actually, but no one believes me when I say so.”

“No one believes him when he says _anything_ ,” Gordon says.  “That’s the curse.”

“They’ll never believe you, Alan,” the youngest recites.  “You’re so young, with so much left to learn, and no one will ever believe you.”

So Scott says.  So it shall be.  

Penelope knows the curse of Scott Tracy.  She knows it like a dying sinner knows a prayer.  She has watched John start conversations with the walls, has watched Virgil vanish into a towering forest.  She has watched Gordon sail away, time and time again, ever fearful of the fate that meets him if he dares to take one, single step upon dry land.  

She has not, however, seen the curse take effect on Alan.  Come to think of it, she rarely sees Alan at all.  Rumor says that while his brothers are out mapping the forest and the sea, Alan maps the stars, so he lays awake with the bats and the beasts of the night, unseen by day.  

Still.  Penelope may not know Alan, but she knows the curse.  She knows it well.  “Surely if you truly do have this curse, then it is easy enough for someone to take that into account when you speak.”

“You hear that Gordon?” Alan says.  “If I _truly do_ have the curse.”

Gordon nods, reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head.  His hair still sticks out in all the wrong places and she has to resist the urge to run her fingers through it.  “That’s sort of the whole problem, Pen,” he explains.  “No one believes that he’s actually cursed.”

And even as someone who knows the curse as completely as one can without actually succumbing to it, Penelope must admit that she is no different from the rest.  She looks Alan in the eye and she does not believe a word he says.

Then she looks at Gordon.  “You do,” she says.  “You seem to believe him.”

“I don’t have to believe him,” Gordon says.  “I just have to trust him—this thing you want to show me.  It’s important?”

Alan nods ferociously.

Gordon groans, as if he’d been hoping the answer was no.  “Of course it is.”  He leans over to Penelope, gives her one last kiss.  “I’ll wake the crew up, set a course for your kingdom.  You’ve got wedding plans to make.”

“Back to reality,” she says.

“Why are you only with me in my dreams?”

Alan rolls his eyes.  “ _Gordon_.”

“Fine, fine,” Gordon says.  “Shit, just… _give me a minute_ here.  I don’t even have pants on.”


	7. A Sky of Absent Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The following contains brief mentions of medieval methods in medicine, particularly regarding mental health. Stay safe, nerds!

There is one very simple, very hard-and-fast rule that a captain must follow whenever he depends upon his crew as completely as Gordon does: treat them well, and they will return the courtesy.  Without access to land, he depends upon his crew for food, water, the retrieval of treasures and information alike—he cannot afford to be a bad captain.

So he is a great one.

“I know it’s late,” he calls to the crew, a motley gang of men who haven’t had enough sleep.  “Which is why I’ll be buying you all drinks when we get to the mainland.”  

This earns him a cheer, exhausted and empty, but loyal.  The loyalty is the important part.  He makes his way across the deck, lanterns blazing through the night as his devoted men ready the ship for travel across the sea.  With only one ship setting out instead of the usual seven, he takes his time, making sure that all is as it should be.  The details, after all, are the most important part.  The details are the difference between a crew returning home safely and a man fallen overboard.  

He works forward from the back for the ship, completely within his element, swinging across ropes and hopping over nets.  He assists where he can, stopping to make sure each man is awake and alert.  “Oliver, you’re excited to see your family, I’m sure.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Another hop, balancing across the edge of his ship as effortlessly as any man can until he finds a rope tied where it isn’t supposed to be.  “Ned, feel free to bring your brother by for a round,” he says, fixing the mistake. “I know it’s been a while.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

They’re run down.  The wedding was supposed to be their break and now he has them working past the sun.  He takes the steps two at a time up to the foredeck, watching his ship as it sparks to life, thinking that he might be the luckiest man alive to have such a loyal crew.

And speaking of loyalty.  “Will you be joining us, Captain?” asks Parker, in that low, covert way he has so throughly mastered over the years.  

“Not today, Parker.” There are rumors as to why Gordon never leaves his ship—rumors he himself rarely hears, as the whispers generally tend to diminish whenever he enters a room.  The curse is among them, floating between possibilities that are often called more _realistic_ , more _likely_.  Truth is, many of his men simply believe that he prefers the sea.  Truth is, they’re not entirely wrong.  There are worse places, he knows, for a man to be trapped.  “Alan is on board—informs me that he has urgent news.”

Parker doesn’t ask about the rumors.  As far as Gordon can tell, Parker doesn’t even participate in the guessing.  “In that case, I’ll lead the men tonight,” he says.  “Make sure they don’t cause you h’any problems with your new allies.”

“We’re not allies yet, Parker,” Gordon reminds the man, pulling a pouch of gold from his innermost pocket.  

Parker takes it, tucking it away for safekeeping.  “Of course not, Captain.  May I ask where the Princess went?”

If Gordon blushes, Parker does not comment on it.  “We were just discussing transportation across the sea for her wedding guests.  It was a rather, um, heated debate, so she’s making herself presentable again while we take her home.”

“I see,” says Parker.  “I shall set a course for the mainland.  It looks as though Prince Alan is mighty eager to speak with you.”

He’s not wrong.  Down below, Alan rocks on his heels, waiting for Gordon’s signal.  His chin is up, as always, towards the stars.  Gordon has to wonder, if given the option, whether the youngest of five would really have the heart to tear them from the sky.

Parker makes his descent, and with a wave from Gordon, Alan thunders up the steps.  “What is so goddamn important—?”

Alan doesn’t let him finish.  “What if I told you that I know how to break the curse?”

There’s a moment—single, but pure and striking—when he truly does feels his ship rock.  The words _break the curse_  met with any sort of certainty have always held the uncanny ability to reach into his chest and squeeze his heart until it hurts.  A life without the curse.  A life in which the sea is a privilege rather than a prison.  A life in which Scott has no control over him.

It occurs to him in the next moment that his ship is leaving the harbor, that the curse is bound by the stars, and that the only rock he feels is that which his prison provides.  “I’d say you’re lying,” Gordon tells him.  Alan opens his mouth to argue, but Gordon cuts him off.  “Even if you _weren’t_ cursed, I’d still say you’re lying.  You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you know how to—to rid the sky of stars, to keep the moon from lighting the sea.”

“You’re the only one who _will_ believe.  I talked to the others and they said I was being ridiculous.”

“Can you blame them?”

“They said I was going out of my mind again.”

Neither boys elaborates on the _again_.  Neither boy needs to.  There is a particularly nasty side effect to disbelief, and it comes in the form of herbalists and doctors and the word _crazy_.  It comes in the form of isolation, of chains, of Gordon coming home to find out that his youngest brother has been locked up, for his own _safety_ , and that he can't even storm the castle to give his older brothers a piece of his mind.  

Just as Gordon can not afford to be a bad captain, Alan can not afford to speak the truth.  And so Gordon listens.  He at least _tries_ to believe.  “What are you thinking?”

Alan perks up, smile spreading, because this is the farthest he’s gotten with any of the brothers.  He bolts to the edge of the ship, Gordon close behind him and pulling him back before he can fall right in.  “Easy there, Al,” he says.  “I’ve never lost a man at sea and I’m not starting with my kid brother.  Just… tell me what you know and I’ll help where I can.”

He can’t quite tell if Alan’s actually listening or not, because the kid is looking up at the sky again, closer to the horizon this time, with one eye closed and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.  He grabs on to Gordon, positions him, and then goes back to his one-eyed hunt.  “Point somewhere.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Gordon rolls his eyes, but he does as he’s asked, pointing straight ahead.  Alan stands behind him, then moves his arm in a way that Gordon can remember seeing John do back before the curse consumed them all.  “Do you see it?” Alan asks.

Gordon looks past the end of his finger, but the amount of nothing is overwhelming.  “What am I looking for?”

“There’s a big dark space, right where I put your finger.”

“It’s nearly midnight, Alan,” says Gordon.  “There are a lot of big dark spaces.”

Alan nods, but there’s more to it that that.  Gordon can see it in the way Alan moves.  In the way he talks and smiles and bounces.  “Yeah, but the difference is that this one is supposed to have stars in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A constellation has fallen straight out of the sky,” Alan says.  

“Fallen?”

“Lupus.  I’ve been tracking it for years,” Alan tells him "It’s always in that same place with this same moon, but all of its stars have fallen—and look.  Where do you think they might have fallen?”

Gordon does as he’s told, following the possible path of fallen stars all the way down to the largest of the three kingdoms—a monstrous island that none of the five princes has ever once dared to visit.  “Balthazar,” Gordon says.

“Gaat knows how to pluck stars from the sky,” Alan says.  “Not only that, but I think he’s  _doing_ it.  Right now.  It’s time he and I had a chat.” 

“You really think you can just waltz into Kingdom Balthazar and demand to see the king?”

“I’ll tell them I’m a prince of Kingdom Melchior.”

“And what happens when they _don’t believe you_?”

“Gaat will know who I am,” Alan says, determined.  “And before you go through the whole lecture about him lifting the curse and how he’s never going to do it, save your breath.  I’ve already put thought into this.  I have a plan, but I need passage across the sea.”

“You want me to sail you to your death, is what you’re telling me.”

“Do you love her?”

The boat rocks again.  The words are such an abrupt shift that Gordon feels the need to grab hold of something.  “What?”

“The Princess,” Alan says.  “Do you love her?  And don’t bother hiding anything, Gordon.  We both know what I saw.”

Gordon wonders, for a moment, when Alan got so old.  The last time he sailed away, he could have sworn there was a little boy waiting for him back home, but here, in the darkness of midnight, Gordon sees nothing less than a prince.  “So what if I do?”

“Scott doesn’t,” Alan says.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong.  He cares about her.  He’ll treat her well.  They’ll have a good life together, but he doesn’t love her—believe me or not, that’s the truth.”

Sea salt settles at the back of his throat, making his words dry and coarse and painful.  “He told you this?”

“Nah,” Alan replies.  “But I’ve seen the way he looks at her, and it’s nothing like the way you do—don’t you want to fight for her?  Don’t you want to break this curse so that you can live your life with her?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

 _“_ Because the answer is yes.”

“God, you’re unbearable when you’re in love, has anyone ever told you that?” Alan says, and Gordon smiles.  It’s a swift, undetected movement before Gordon’s got his kid brother in a headlock and shakes a fist through messy blond hair.  Alan cries out, shoves his brother off of him, and ruffles his hair back to where it’s supposed to be.  “So you’ll do it?”

There’s a pause.  Then a sigh.  “Come talk to me after the memorial,” Gordon says.  “I want to see your plans, I want to know exactly how you think this is all going to work out, and if you die in that godforsaken kingdom, I will revive you myself, just so that I can kill you again, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Alan says, smile fresh and new and elated.  “After the memorial.  Got it.”


	8. A Threat for Big Brother

Scott doesn’t visit the library much anymore.

He used to spend hours in there, reading about faraway lands and high-stakes adventures.  He had dreamed of becoming a knight, like his father before him, leading men high upon their steeds into battles he didn’t yet know.  He would read stories about the greatest men in the greatest sword fights—learn the history of the three kingdoms and how they came to be.  The books held entire worlds within them, and they were worlds that Scott very much wanted to be a part of.

The world housed within the library these days, however, is a world that Scott very much wishes he could forget.  

They’ve made accommodations for John, of course.  Everything that _can_ be done, _has_ been done—they bring him food, water, clean clothes.  He has a few personal trinkets scattered about the room.  John has never been particularly sentimental, but their mother’s music box sits on the mantel and his very first telescope rests along the windowsill, so hopefully it makes him feel a little more at home.

They’ve even built him a bed, tucked away in a corner and hidden behind curtains of navy and gold, but as far as Scott can tell, it mostly goes unused.  Every time he brings breakfast up to his brother—which, admittedly, is a more infrequent occasion than it really should be—John is sleeping in front of the fireplace, curled up between rug and blanket with an open book nearby.

Scott sets the silver platter down atop a nearby table, taking a seat on one of the sofas.  It will only take a whisper to wake him up—John’s always been the lightest sleeper in the kingdom—but Scott gets stuck somewhere between the ages of six and sixteen.  He remembers this very scene, back when John still got in trouble for spending nights in the library, back when he _chose_ to be here.  It used to be Scott—tall, brave Scott—who would wake him up before Father found him, who would act as John’s chivalrous older brother.

One never really outgrows being an older brother.  When the words come, they feel more like a memory and Scott, for the slimmest of seconds, tricks himself into believing that nothing has changed.  “Johnny, wake up.”

John’s awake.  Scott knows this.  And yet he doesn’t stir.  Scott will never know how he makes that transition—how he can jump from unconscious to conscious without feeling the need to catch his breath.  He begins to wonder if John dreams anymore just as the redhead says, eyes closed, “What.”

“Brought you breakfast,” Scott says, scooting the platter closer to the end of the table.  “Ham omelette.”

“What do you need?”

The fact that John skips the pleasantries is not a result of the curse.  That part is one-hundred percent John, and it always has been.  Honestly, Scott has to feel a little relieved. He’s late for his morning drills and on top of that, he doesn’t want to spend any more time in this library than necessary. “The memorial is tonight,” he says.  “I need someone to play the boats off.”

John takes a deep breath in, lets it all fall out, and then in one, swift motion, his eyes are open and he’s up at the edge of the table with a bite of omelette in his cheek.  “What did Virgil say?”

“You know what Virgil said.”

John nods.  “Otherwise you wouldn’t even give me a second thought—that is what you try to do these days, isn’t it?  Forget about me?”

He watches John scarf down food like he hasn’t eaten in days and, for a heart-stopping moment, Scott fears that maybe he hasn’t.  Except he knows that’s not possible, so long as the palace staff are keeping up with the schedule—are they?  Maybe that’s the sort of thing Scott would know if he ever paid a visit.  “No, John.  Not at all—”

But John just holds his fork up, waving it in Scott’s face until he can swallow his mouthful.  “No, Scott.  It’s really fine,” he says.  “I like it up here.  It’s quiet, and no one tries to steal my pudding.”

Scott smiles.  “That’s not fair,” Scott says.  “If you recall, you _gave_ me your pudding.”

“Because you commanded it.”

“We didn’t know about the curse yet—I didn’t do it on _purpose_.”  He says it like it’s the most preposterous thing.  Like he could never, as long as he lived, use the curse for his own gain.  Then he looks at John, whose eyebrows are raised as he shovels another forkful of egg into his mouth.  “This wasn’t on purpose, Johnny.  You’ve got to know that I would—”

“Would never do it on purpose, Scott?” John says.  “Is that what you’re about to say, because I’d like you to save your breath there.  Maybe _my_ curse wasn’t on purpose, but we both know that you’re not a saint—which reminds me.  You and I are going to have a talk.”

John pushes his platter away, and even though it’s empty, the scent of ham and fresh bread still lingers between them.  He stands, towering above Scott’s seat, and crosses his arms over his chest, looking down upon his older brother.  “You are _not_  going to do this to Penelope.”

Scott wonders where John gets the gall to address the princess by her given name.  Then he wonders where he gets the courage.  “I… what?”

John bends down to Scott’s level, real close so that he can hear.  “This curse of yours.  If at any point in your assumed forty-to-sixty years together you _curse_ her, then I promise you, I will search through every last one of these books until I find a way out of this library and then I, personally, will be responsible for your death.”  He takes a casual seat on the sofa across from Scott, as if what he’s just said isn’t high treason.  “I’ve got plenty of incentive, you know.  Next in line to the throne and all that.”

“You don’t want to be king,” Scott says with a wave.  “You never have.”

“Mmm, right.  Murder-suicide, then—leave it all to Virgil.”

“Christ, John.”  It’s the kind of thing that makes Scott wonder.  The kind of thing that makes him ask questions about what the same four walls can do to a person’s humanity.

But in the end, John’s humanity is just fine.  It always is.  “Hey,” he says, lighter now.  “I’m not kidding.  This curse is dangerous, Scott.”

“You think I don’t know that?”  Scott says.  “I know that better than anyone else.”

“No,” says John.  “You know that less than anyone else.  Alan, me.  Virgil and Gordon.  We won’t even talk about—”

“I get it.”

“You need to be careful, Scott,” John tells him, gentle and firm in that way only John can be.  “You’re entering a longterm commitment to someone you have significant power over.  Me, I was _born_ with you by my side, taking all the good toys, telling me to show myself in hide-n-seek.  That’s all I’ve ever known, Scott, but she’s _choosing_ you.  She’s trusting you.”

It’s a fact he knows well, that this alliance is far more beneficial to his kingdom than it is to hers.  Without a looming war over kingdom Balthazar, it’s likely that this alliance would never happen at all.  She needs his men, he needs her money.  She _is_ trusting him, far more than he has to trust her.  Money is a definite.  Men are unpredictable.  “I know.”

“I’m glad you know,” says John.  “But now you need to know a little bit more.  Penelope and I have been good friends for longer than I can remember and if there is any one thing you should know about her, it’s this: she’s very bad at telling people when she is scared.”

“Scared?”

“I once saw her stand in a tree for three hours because she wouldn’t admit that she was too scared to come down,” John says.  “She is more stubborn than anyone I know and will laugh in the face of fear before she dares to scream.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Scott,” he says.  “She spends hours with me in a library I cannot leave.  She watches Gordon set sail for months at a time because one step on dry land will cause him to dissolve into sea foam.  She’s _terrified_.  And she’s terrified of you.”

He considers every moment he’s spent with her—thinks about the fact that her eyes won’t meet his.  He remembers all those nervous ticks he’s grown so used to and the way her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.  Scared, indeed.  Not even married yet and Scott’s already failed as a husband.  “Well that won’t do.”

“You need to make her to trust you,” John says.  “You need to promise her that you’ll do more than try—that you won’t ever _command_ her to do anything.  And then, Scott?”

“Hmm?”

“You need to mean it.”  There is nothing more than absolute conviction in John’s voice as he says it and Scott gets the bone-chilling feeling that he probably wasn’t kidding about murder, if it came to that.  But it won’t.  Scott swears it won’t.  “I’ll play at the memorial,” John says.  “Her song, right?”

“Her song,” Scott confirms.

Both of them stand, and Scott realizes that this is his cue to leave.  Only then does he consider the fact that John might dread these visits just as much as Scott does, so he’s quick to leave.

Except.  “John?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” says the older brother.

The younger brother nods, once.  “You’re welcome.”


	9. A Stream of Exchanged Promises

At the edge of the forest that sits across the edge of the island, there is a river that cuts through the cliffs.  It flows in from the sea, splitting through the jagged, mountainous rock that rests on this side of the island, carefully curving between tide pools until it touches the outermost edges of the outermost trees.  Virgil likes to stop here.  It’s an easy place for both he and Deuce to get a drink and, more than that, there’s just something about this place that’s always been a little bit better than the rest of the world.  

Maybe it’s the birds—the way they sing.  Maybe it’s the way the sun speckles the long, unkept grass through toweringly magnificent trees.  There’s usually a breeze coming in from the beach, fresh mint growing at the base of his favorite tree, and a perfect reflection of a blue, sun-drenched sky sits atop the stream.  It’s certainly the most serene part of the forest.  Maybe even on the entire island.

And then there’s the Woman in the Water.

She isn’t there all the time and, in fact, it’s really quite a rare occasion that he sees her at all.  He only ever found her in the first place because her presence causes a uniquely strange anomaly: the stream changes direction.

For as long as he’s been visiting this very spot at the very edge of the forest, the stream has always flowed away from the sea except for, of course, the one day when it did not.  He had kept Deuce from drinking that day, made a note to ask John about it once he returned to the palace, but in the end he simply could not help himself.  His brothers may be more curious, more adventurous, but Virgil is the most aware.  If something was happening in his kingdom, he needed to know about it.

And so Virgil had stepped up to the very edge of that stream, only to be met with the strongest set of eyes he’d ever seen.

She had been gone in a flash, of course.  Startled away even quicker than a garden fairy.  He had almost written it off as a trick of the eyes, a mistake made at the hand of long hours and fatigue, except then there had been a second time.  And a third.  He’s sure she’s there, she just isn’t  _ always  _ there.  Only when the stream flows the wrong way.

Today must be his lucky day.

It’s a smooth, steady rift in the water, as if she is just another pebble causing another wave, but there’s something else about her.  Something about the way the water weaves in and out of the space that seems to be her reality.  Everything around her is dense and damming, and he wonders how she doesn’t drown.

He’s got to be careful, because he has a terrible tendency to scare her away.  He’ll be gentler this time.  Swifter, softer, quieter.  For a moment he wishes that he had Scott’s power to make her stay, but it is with a spine-shivering realization that he reminds himself he does not. “Excuse me.”

Green eyes go wide, just as they have thrice before, so he reaches out to the water.  “Wait!  I’m sorry to scare you.”

It takes a moment for the surface to settle again, but he hears her voice.  “You did not scare me,” she says.  “Nothing scares me.   _ I  _ should scare  _ you _ .”

There are those eyes again, as if the earth and sun have finally met.  She’s got the force of nature in those eyes and he wonders if maybe she’s right.  Maybe he should have been fearing her all this time.  “Why?  What threat do you bring?”

She does not laugh, but her smile says it all.  There is no single threat she fails to bring.  “What threat do  _ you  _ bring, wolf?”

There’s a pulse in his chest, beneath a wound that will surely scar.  There’s a pulse in his throat, where the words swell and shake.  “I know of no wolf.”

The Woman in the Water does not look at him, her eyes occupied with some other task, but she still speaks to him.  Of that, he is sure.  “That’s very unfortunate for you,” she says.  “There’s a full moon soon.”

There are, exactly, two people and a Dalmatian who know about the beast, and she is most certainly not any of those three options. “Who are you?”

“You approached me, Prince, I owe you no answers.”

And Virgil cannot bring himself to demand them.  He has seen too many demands in his lifetime.  “I see you here sometimes.  When my horse drinks from the stream.”

“So you have eyes, then, have you?”

Her eyes meet his one more time and his pulse is back, bleeding into his shoulders, his cheeks, his eardrums.  She is, without a doubt, the most intense being he’s ever encountered, even considering the beast that dwells within himself.  She moves water upstream, stops the breeze from the sea, and who knows what else?  Virgil doesn’t want to think about all that she could do if she were actually here, beside him.  “You’re a witch,” he says.  “That’s how you show yourself in the water.”

“I’m a sorceress,” she corrects.  “And I do not wish to show myself.  I only wish to see.”

“And you need my stream to do that?”

“ _ Your  _ stream.  Honestly.”

“My kingdom, my stream.”

“And it is my sky that is reflected in your stream, Prince,” she tells him.  “But of course, you see nothing more than what is.”

He’s fairly certain it’s an insult, but he doesn’t understand it, and therefore lacks a rebuttal.  Instead, he does what princes do best and changes the subject.  “What do you know of wolves?” he asks.  Then, voice lower, as if there is anyone but them at the edge of these woods,  “How do you know of  _ my  _ wolf?”

“I know of any creature which depends upon my moon.  Of anything which depends upon my sun,” she says.  “And I also make note of the creatures that can be made useful to me.”

“Useful?”

“You have the bite of the wolf,” she says.  “I cannot see the sky.  Perhaps an arrangement can be made.”

Virgil watches the Woman in the Water—watches her work, watches her think, watches her every move.  Her hair is dark like the night and her skin is kissed by the sun and he thinks, for just a moment, that maybe she is a nymph, and maybe all that is said about their beauty is true.  “You know how to tame the beast?”

“That depends strictly upon your ability to aid my attempts at freedom.”

Virgil literally steps up to the challenge, chest out.  Shoulders back.  This is, after all, what princes are meant to do, is it not?  Run gallantly into danger, free the maiden, live _ happily ever after _ .

Ha.  As if there could ever be such a thing.

“Tell me where you are,” he says.  

She smiles.  “Now, if I knew that, then I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”


	10. The Blue of Sunny Skies

Alan can’t remember the last time he’s seen the sun.

Of course, this has been a choice, and that is the fundamental factor of it all.  It is his  _ choice  _ to spend the days sleeping, his  _ choice  _ to spend the nights living, his  _ choice  _ to climb out onto the roof and lay under his stars.  The ability to exercise freewill is the difference between not having seen the sun, and not having been  _ allowed  _ to see the sun, and so Alan has made sure that only the former can be true.

This is perhaps why he likes night so much.  Certainly because that is when the stars show themselves, but also because it is when his brothers don’t.  It’s quiet in the castle come sunset, and no one can tell him he’s wrong.  No one can convince him that he’s crazy.  It’s a delicate line that Alan walks, strung between definitive truths he’s always known and arbitrary falsities that the universe composes in order to contradict him.  It is the difference between night and day.

When he does encounter his brothers—on those rare mornings when Alan is up too late and the others are up too early—he forces himself, over and over, to recite the fact that the sky is blue.  It’s a silent chant, said only in his head until he lets the words fall out over toast and eggs.  “The sky is blue,” he’ll say, and then his brothers will exchange that _ look _ .  That one that says he’s at it again.

The sky  _ is  _ blue.  Alan can see it now, standing on the docks of Kingdom Caspar.  It is a truth he  _ knows _ , beyond any doubt, except there is still a very real fear that he is wrong.  He’s said it so many times—has gone unbelieved for so long—that he starts to wonder if  _ blue  _ is even blue, and if the sky is even there at all.  He starts to wonder if maybe he is making it all up, maybe he was never cursed in the first place, maybe he just wants attention.

Or maybe he really does deserve all of the crossed looks.

Because this is what happens when Alan sees the sun.  Everything starts to burn.  He can no longer navigate by way of stars, can no longer point to Polaris and  _ know  _ that it is always to the north, no longer feels the crisp, cool air along the back of his neck.  Nothing is  _ real  _ in the way he knows it to be, because nothing is real in one’s head.

No.

He bolts up to the deck.  He can’t do this here.  Not now, not when he’s outside of his own kingdom.  It’s bad enough that his own people whisper about him, he won’t have it happen here too.  “The sky is blue.”

Admittedly, it’s a bit rough.  Abrupt.  Gordon probably has every right to stop in his tracks just behind him, but the important thing is that Gordon chooses not to look at Alan like he’s a few marbles short of a set, and instead looks up at the sky. “Huh,” he says, and then he turns to the princess, escorting her over the snarling garden of ropes and nets with a single, steady hand.  “Wouldya look at that, Pen.  The sky’s blue.”

And then the princess looks up, smiles, and turns back to Gordon.  Alan knows it must be true on her lips, because she only ever heard Gordon say it.  “Yes.  A lovely blue-sky afternoon.  It would appear as though you boys have a pair of angels looking down on you.”

The two of them take off again and Alan doesn’t miss the wink Gordon sends his way.  For just a moment, Alan’s sure of everything again.  He’s sure of the color blue, he’s sure of the curse, and he’s so,  _ so  _ sure of the fact that he is going to charge into King Gaat’s throne room and demand it be lifted.

This will likely be harder than he thinks, and he thinks it will be quite hard.  Still.  It’s going to happen, because of all of his brothers, Alan is the most determined to put and end to this.  Alan is most determined to see the sun again.

“Excuse me, young man,” says a voice, big and booming, no doubt belonging to a king.  “Is this the ship to Melchior?”

Alan turns to see rich red robes and a crown made of gold, but Gordon is already there before he can get a word out.  “Your Majesty,” he says.  “A good afternoon to you.  This is indeed the ship to Melchior, monitored overnight.  The princess is already on board, accompanied by Parker, as per your request, and you’ll be happy to know that there is a great big glass of Italian wine with your name on it, waiting in the great cabin.”

The king gives a chortle.  “You do know how to treat a king, don’t you?”

Gordon smiles back, ever charming.  “Been doing it all my life, Your Majesty.  Now, let’s see if we can get back home in time for the memorial, shall we?”

“Ship like this, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Yes sir.”

There’s a handshake and another escort for Caspar royalty.  Gordon looks back to Alan, throws his head in a way that very much suggests he  _ come along _ , and Alan scurries to his side.  He’s never been asked to wine and dine with the big boys before.

Maybe none of it is real after all.


	11. The Blessings of Old Kings

It’s a red wine, flowing smooth into a golden goblet.  King Creighton-Ward is a man known for his mighty thirst, so Gordon pours him another without being asked.  The king’s laugh is gruff and stately and everything a king’s laugh should be.  It reminds him of his father, but today everything reminds him of his father.  

“Young man,” says the king, voice made of power and law.  “When my council wants me to agree to something I would not normally, do you know what they do?”  He raises his glass.  “They begin to treat me rather _well_.”

Gordon pours himself a second glass, asks Alan if he needs to be topped off.  “A council should treat their king well all the time,” he says.

The king spares a grunt.  “In theory,” he says.  “What is it you want to ask for, Gordon?”

Now it’s Gordon’s turn to laugh.  “Sir, these are your ships,” he says.  “Half of those who sail with me are your men.  All I ask for is the opportunity to share this wine with the man who paid for it.”

“Mmhm.”  The king’s voice reverberates against gold and his eyes pierce like silver.  Gordon tries his hardest not to think about Penelope.  “I believe that about as much as I believe this brother of yours is of the proper age for such a drink.  Or of the proper health.”

“Due respect, Your Majesty,” Gordon says, and maybe the bottle of wine lands just a little too strongly atop the table between them.  “I brought him down here to learn how things are done, not to have his health pulled into question.”

“So then you _did_ have a plan,” says the king, grinning that governing grin.  “Tell me, young man.  You have my ships.  You have my men.  What else of mine is it that you want?”

There is one, single answer that comes to mind without thinking, echoing throughout that empty space in his head where his brain should be.  Thankfully he has the sense not to say it, not to let it slip out, not to think about all of the things that happened one night prior, in that very same chair her father now sits.  “I want to warn you,” he says.  “About a potential threat.”

This, at least, gets the king’s attention.  He leans forward, setting his goblet down for the first time since he picked it up.  It leaves an incomplete red ring at the edge of the map splayed across tabletop.  Fine.  It’s out of date anyways.  Gordon has discovered three more islands since he last touched this particular copy.  This map is from before the curse, before he had an entire fleet at his command, before Penelope.  “What sort of threat?”

There’s a fleeting glance between the two brothers before Gordon answers.  “There’s been a storm brewing between Melchior and Balthazar for a long time now,” he says.  “Now, your kingdom should go unaffected—will _likely_ go unaffected, but when lightning strikes you can hear the thunder for miles.”

The king’s voice is a rumble now, a storm all its own.  “Stay away from Gaat, boys.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Stay _away_ from Gaat,” he says again, but he is not Scott.  His command is that of hornor and politics—both of which can be broken with ease.  “When you say my kingdom will go unaffected, you consider my land and my wealth, but do you consider my men?  My ships?  I am about to make a very important alliance with your kingdom, so have you considered the war you may _finally_ cause or my duty to aid your attempts?  You will have a new king and queen soon. Have you, even for one single moment, given any thought to my daughter?  To your brother?”

As it just so happens, these are the two people Gordon spends the majority of his time thinking about, but again, he’s too smart to say so.  Instead the words sit, festering and bubbling, simultaneously waiting to be said and never allowed to be spoken.  It’s hard—real hard—for Gordon to keep his mouth shut, but if there’s any one man who cannot hear what he wants to say, it is the man sitting before him.

And thank the stars for Alan, who blurts out words before Gordon can.  “We’re only requesting to see him.  To discuss the state of our kingdoms.”

“I’ll believe that the day I die,” says the king, picking up his glass once more.

“It’s the truth,” Gordon tells him, and he prays to god he’s not lying.  He hasn’t heard Alan’s plans yet and furthermore, Alan’s a desperate boy on a desperate mission.  Not even Gordon is completely sure he can trust him this time.  “Alan will be the one to sit down with King Gaat—to learn why our kingdoms have come to this point.”

The king looks, rather directly, over Gordon’s shoulder to where Alan sits.  The kid’s never looked so small.  “What is it they call you?”  the king asks, eyes burning with inadequacy.  “The Teatime Prince?”

Gordon will tolerate a great many things.  This is not one of them.  He stands, wood scratching wood as the chair retreats.  His palms smack against the tabletop, his shoulders sag as he sinks down to the king’s level.  Gordon will never be a king, and so his voice is that of a brother when he speaks.  “Say that again.  I dare you.”

The king does not say it again.

He goes on. “Your Majesty, I am the captain of your finest ships.  I am responsible for your most accurate maps.  I have _never_ lost a man at sea—you’ve trusted me up until this point.”  Gordon stands his ground, doesn’t yield, but his voice is just a touch more desperate than it was before.  Or maybe it’s just a touch less brave.  “Trust me _now_.  That’s all I ask.”

The king seems to consider these words, letting them bounce around inside his crowned head as he finishes off yet another glass of wine.  Gordon doesn’t pour him a new one.  “You Tracy boys,” he says.  “So difficult.  Everyone thinks you get that from your father you know, but that’s not true.  It’s your mother.  Stubborn little thing—the reason your kingdoms are feuding in the first place.”

It is maybe just a little bit cruel, bringing up their parents on this day, but then it occurs to Gordon that the five of them aren’t the only ones who have lost Jeff and Lucille Tracy.  In fact, it takes two whole kingdoms to mourn their loss.  No matter how hard he tries, Gordon cannot hate a man for missing them.

“Thank god my Penelope never fell in love,” he goes on.  “Imagine the kind of fallout that would have.”

And yeah, maybe Gordon can hate him a little bit for that instead.

“A nightmare,” Gordon says.  “Truly devastating for all parties, I’m sure—do we have your blessing?”

“Of course not,” the king says.  “But I can’t imagine that will do much good in stopping you, so know this: if this interaction with Gaat causes any sort of turmoil, you will have no aid from me or my men.  When Scott is king, he and I will decide what to do about Gaat.”

“Then we’ll make sure there’s no turmoil,” Gordon says.

There’s a knock at the door before it opens, another voice calling down to them.  “Your ‘ighnesses.  Your Majesty.  We’ve h’arrived.”

“Thank you Parker,” the king says, then he turns back to Gordon, brings his voice down again.  “No turmoil.”

Gordon smiles—the kind of smile that leaves bite marks on a tongue and causes cheeks to bleed.  “After you, Your Majesty.”

It’s quite a bit brighter on the deck, skies inappropriately blue for the day about to come.  When Gordon looks up, he sees the window to the library and, watching over them all, stands John.  He’s tall.  Solemn. John’s always solemn, but Gordon gets it.  They’re the only two trapped by the things they love most, and so when Gordon gives John a wave, John waves back, and the two of them go on with their lives, not saying a single word to each other.  

Until someone pulls Gordon away from the sight.  “You’re doing _what_?” she says, voice nearly matching her father’s.  “You’re going after _Gaat_?”

Penelope’s eyes match her father’s exactly.  “We’re not _going after_ anyone,” Gordon tells her.  “And how did you even—?”

“Unimportant,” she snaps.  “This is a dumb idea, Gordon.  Don’t do it.”

“Then you don’t marry Scott.”

“What?”

“Nothing.  Nevermind.”

“ _Why_ does everyone keep saying that?  I’ll marry Scott if I damn well _please_ —”

“Princess?”

Ha.  Of course he’s here.

Scott’s taller than Gordon, handsomer than Gordon, richer than Gordon, and most importantly, he strips himself of his jacket and wraps it around Penelope’s shoulders before Gordon can even realize that the wind is a little chilly.  “What are you doing here, Scott?”

“I came to talk to the princess,” Scott says, indignant.  Like he has _any right_ to be indignant.

“Yeah.  Get the hell off my ship.”

Penelope clears her throat.  “If you want to be technical about it, it’s my ship,” she tells him, and Gordon swears he could jump overboard.  Right then.  Right there.  He could do it and then he’d just dissolve away into nothing.  “Scott, darling, what is it?”

And then the strangest thing—Scott looks a little bit nervous.  “I was actually wondering,” he says, words slow, lacking their usual strike.  “If you’d _like_ to, maybe we could go on something of a date.”

Oh yeah. _Definitely_ jumping overboard.


	12. A Picnic for the Prince's Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The following contains brief mentions of self-harm and depression. Please, please, please stay safe!

Scott doesn’t get to explore.  He doesn’t get to travel to far off lands, doesn’t get to have adventures, doesn’t get to be the men he used to read about all those years ago.  Scott’s dreams come to him in mountain ranges that need climbing, in deserts that need exploring, in new worlds that demand to be seen and touched and tasted, but he can’t quite reach those realities.  The life of a prince—the life of an eventual _king_ —does not accommodate the quiet desires of dreamers.

Maybe this is why he likes the garden so much.  The gravel crunches under his shoe like the snow atop the Alps.  The heat seeps into his skin as if he stands at the very center of the world.  A new color strikes him with every turn of the head, strikingly bold greens and demandingly rich reds, so unforgivingly beautiful that he has no choice but to reach out to them.

He snaps the stem of a rose, fingers sticky with pollen.  He swipes the stick away, and hands the flower to the woman at his back.  To his betrothed.  To his queen.  “Careful,” he says.  “Don’t—um.  The thorns could prick you.”

She smiles, accepting the gift with the sort of grace she was taught.  “Thank you,” she says.  Her eyes don’t meet his.

So the two of them start off down the path again.  It’s strange, wandering through his garden alongside someone else.  So often he’s alone— _enjoys_  being alone—because while he may have damned his brothers, Scott’s always been trapped.  People are his prison and getting lost in the garden is his only escape into adventure.  

“It’s my pleasure,” he tells her, and he really does mean it.  She’s a beautiful woman.  Smart.  Kind.  Competent.  “Honestly, Penelope, it’s always going to be my pleasure.”

She doesn’t answer with anything more than a slow nod.  He watches as her thumb picks at the thorns of her new rose, but they’re too stubborn to be whittled away by any sort of absentmindedness.  It’s going to take a conscious effort if ever that rose is to be thornless.  

He guides her down another path, so overgrown that he wonders if even the fairies have forgotten about it.  It’s his favorite part of the garden, covered in climbing green vines and shrouded in the smell of at least a dozen different species of flower.  Trees grow overhead, blooming with flowers that hang from their branches—a sky made up of purple petals.  No one can find him here.  This is the place where Scott exists only as Scott.

He’s already been here once today, straight after his meeting with John.  It’s possible that he’s made a few poor choices—that he should have been greeting guests as they arrived, been visiting the village and receiving condolences—but a prince must prioritize and right this moment, his priority is Penelope.  For this day and many more to come.

That’s why there’s a blanket lying next to the fountain.  That’s why there’s wine in an ice bucket.  He’d prepared the sandwiches himself and, according to John’s kitchen staff, the pastries he’s brought out are Penelope’s absolute favorites.  Scott needs her to know that he cares for her—that he’ll _take_ care of her.  That there’s nothing to be afraid of.  

“Oh,” is all she says.

It’s not exactly the reaction Scott had been expecting.  “Is it too much?” he asks.  “God, I knew it was too much.  I wasn’t going to bring the pastries out, but they told me they were your favorites, so I—”

“Scott.”  Her voice is like watching a petal land atop water, disruptive and gentle.  Her touch sends ripples through him as her hand takes his.  “It’s lovely.  Of course it’s lovely.  I just… it’s been a very long time since anyone has put this much effort forward on my behalf.”

The sun trickles down through the trees, leaving gold along her skin.  “Well then,” he says, guiding her to the blanket, “we shouldn’t waste a moment.”

When she sits, the skirt of her dress fluffs out around her and Scott can’t help but be a little surprised.  He’s not used to this—to dresses, to princesses, to women.  For so long, it has been his brothers and his father, and the last time he can remember seeing Penelope before all of the wedding business, she had swiped a pair of John’s pants and tied her skirt up into a tail.

When he sits, there is no change in how he looks, but there is plenty more change in Penelope, because he can finally see her eyes.  She’s _looking_ at him, and he can see her eyes.

There’s diamonds in her eyes.  Scott swears it’s true, and when the sun finds them, the diamonds start to shine.

“Scott?”

He blinks.  “Yes.  Um, here.”  His hands scramble towards the ice bucket, quick and determined, just like everything else he does.  “I’ll get the wine.”

She smiles, placing her hand on his.  “It’s actually quite fine,” she says.  “I’m not a big fan.”

“Of wine?”

“Of any drink.”

Scott laughs, but it’s only when he doesn’t join in that he realizes she isn’t kidding.  “None?” he says.  “At all?  How do you handle yourself?”

Her wince isn’t a thing of much note.  It would probably go unseen, if not for the fact that Scott’s attention keeps falling to her eyes.  “I suspect that perhaps your reasons for drinking may be a bit stronger than any of mine would be.”

Penelope, he’s noticed, is very good at mentioning the curse without ever actually mentioning the curse.  After John’s warning, he finally understands why.  “Could I ask you something?”

She’s hesitant at first, and that alone is enough of an answer, but then she nods.

“Are you afraid of me?”

She sets the rose down, shifting herself.  It’s like she’s bracing for impact, and so he joins her in doing so.  “I wonder if, instead of answering, I might ask _you_ a question.”

“Of course.  Anything.”

Her eyes land on him one more time, and somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him that these eyes will be looking at him for the rest of their lives.  “Do you remember that night?” she says.  “That night when John tried to…”

He suspects she probably already knows the answer to that question.  “Yes,” he says.  “Yeah, I—of course I do.”

“That was the most frightening moment of my life,” she tells him.  He feels like it should be a secret.  He feels like it isn’t something she should admit to, and yet her words are strong.  Factual.  “Losing my dearest friend.  Walking into the library and _watching_ it happen.  Having someone I love be so miserable without my knowing.   _Those_ are things that I’m afraid of.  I am not afraid of you, Scott.  Although I am a little unsettled by what you can do.”

Scott wants to scream out, wants to tell her that _John_ made those decisions and that it’s not his fault.  But in the end, he knows that’s not entirely true, and Penelope has an eye for liars.  “I want you to feel comfortable around me,” he tells her.  “I don’t want you to feel like I’m going to go around trapping you in libraries—”

“That isn’t the part that stuck with me, Scott,” she says, and god.  How does she keep her voice so even?  “You trapped John in the library because you were young.  You were scared.  You didn’t know what you were doing.”

He’s not sure he quite understands.  “Then what—?”

“Do you remember when I came looking for you?” she says.  “When I brought you back to that library?  Do you remember what you said, because I most certainly do.”

That whole night is a blur, every last second condensed down into a single memory of solid, black dread.  “I can’t—”

“Sit.  Don’t move.  Breathe,” she repeats, dry and sharp.  “God, are you kidding me, John?  Don’t answer.  Cough.  Cough again—”

“It was for the best.  He was dying.”

“—don’t ever do that again, John.  Do you hear me?  Don’t you ever try anything like that again.”

Scott does remember that part.  He remembers it well, accompanied by fear and guilt and outright rage.  “Can you really blame me?” he asks, but even as he says it, he knows she really can.  

“You trapped him in his own life, Scott,” she says.  “Not only that, but you knew you were doing it.  For years, he swore that it was an accident—that you would _never_ do it on purpose.  And then that night, I watched you command him without a second thought.”

“It was for the better.”

“And that is why it’s so unsettling,” she says.  Her eyes drop and she picks up the rose to busy her fingers once more.  “ _You’re_ the one who makes that decision—for the better.  You can make any decision you want, can justify it however you please.  The only law you have to follow is your own.  What happens when you decide that it’s better I not speak in council meetings or that it’s better I stay in the castle with the children?  What happens when you decide that my hand in marriage isn’t enough—that you want my heart, my head, my soul?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he tells her.  “I couldn’t.  If I add one more person to my list of ruined lives, I’ll crumble under the guilt, I swear it.”

She smiles, tender, forgiving, as her free hand reaches out to his knee.  She holds the rose up to him, flower end forward.  “Your promise is beautiful on the surface, but”—she flips the rose so that the stem faces him, thorns and all—“we are going to be together for many years.”

He takes the flower, pricking the end of his thumb as he does.  There’s a single drop of blood that matches the petals perfectly and Scott wonders, for just a moment, if he’s made up of roses.  

“Scott?” she says again, and Scott looks up at her, eyes made of diamond.  “I am glad we’re discussing this.  And this lunch really is lovely.  I don’t want you to think I’m resentful towards you—or fearful, or angry, or anything else.  I know it’s not your fault that you have the curse.”

“I…” And this.  This is maybe just a little bit too much for Scott, because he can’t actually recall anyone saying those exact words to him in that exact order.  None of his brothers, and certainly not his father.  Maybe his mother would have said it, but she never knew.  God, she never even knew.  “Thank you, Penelope.”

Then she holds up her sandwich to the sky, as if to toast.  “To a great many years together,” she says.  “To us.”

Scott doesn’t get to travel to far off lands or discover places yet unknown.  He doesn’t get to visit mountain ranges that need climbing, or deserts that need exploring, or new worlds that demand to be seen and touched and tasted, but he’s beginning to think that maybe he’ll get to see a few adventures after all. He holds up his own sandwich, and the two of them click crusts. “To us.”


	13. A Suit of Scarred Beasts

He tries to avoid mirrors whenever he can.  

It’s nothing to do with vanity or confidence or pride.  It’s not an attempt at being humble.  He avoids mirrors simply because he wishes to avoid the scars, and there are a lot of scars.

 _Go, and search every inch of the forest until father is found_.

So Scott had said.  So it shall be.  The words ring throughout Virgil’s mind, striking him like a whip that leaves scars all its own.  He faces himself, letting his eyes fumble over his skin, and he swears that when he looks into this mirror, it is the beast’s eyes that stare back at him.

His heartbeat is too loud in that quiet room.

They start right at his hairline, cutting away at his temples, pale skin slicing across afternoons in the sun.  They stretch down his jaw, reminiscent of each and every time he’s heard his own pulse in his ears and every time it’s been scratched out of existence.  There are scars across his neck, across his chest, across his sides, all harsher than the rest and he honestly can’t decide whether more of his torso belongs to him or to the beast.  When they were kids, John used to tell him that it was impossible to count the stars in the sky and now, looking at his own body, Virgil finally understands what he’d meant.  Immeasurable.  Incalculable.  Uncountable. 

He pulls his shirt over his head, shoulders sore, the weight of the sheer cloth seeming to match that of his hauberk.  He wishes that the ache would spare him, even if only for a moment.  He wishes that he weren’t so sore every hour of the day.  The pain is chronic and unforgiving and keeps him from the things he once loved.  He forgets what it feels like to play the violin.  

Then again, it’s not like he could bring himself to play anyways.  There’s not much music left in him these days.

He pulls his vest over his arms, his movements slow and stiff.  With his hand stretched out in front of him, he can see the worst scar of them all, and it’s like he’s out in the forest again.  He can almost feel the chill in the air, feel the wolf’s warm breath on his skin, feel his heartbeat race.  The night comes in crisp, curt flashes of white-hot memory, because searching _every inch_ of a forest requires that one leaves the path, and leaving the path results in an encounter with a wolf.

He still remembers the sound of his own scream, still remembers the sight of red blood against white snow.  Even now he looks at the mark on his hand and wonders why, of all things, it resembles a crescent moon.  Scott may have cursed him, but it’s the bite that stole his life from him.  Similarly, it’s the bite that _gave_ him his life back.

Because when the beast takes over, the compulsion no longer exists—other compulsions, certainly.  Run, feast, howl at the moon that controls your fate.  But the compulsion to search the forest, that unrelenting urge to look and keep looking, even when there’s nothing left to look for—it’s gone.  The beast is not bound by the curse.

Now.  If only he would stop trying to tear Virgil’s heart out, the two of them might just get along.

He pulls his jacket over his shoulders, the third layer of his mourning suit.  He hates this thing—hates how it looks, hates how it feels, and hates that it doesn’t smell like dust.  The sleeves are too tight around raw wrists and they remind him of chains.  Of nights spent fighting himself. He rolls them up.  Scott can give him hell if he wants.

His crown is a solid stack of twisted silver, spotted with emeralds.  It still feels wrong, wearing a crown to these things, but he puts it on anyways.  He knows how to dress for a funeral by now.  He’s been to enough of them.  The public needs to see that he’s still capable of leading, even when he is mourning.  It’s a lie, but it’s a lie that comforts the people, so apparently that makes it worth it.

As if the people are the ones who need comforting.

Doesn’t matter.  This is the way things work, so he takes one last look in the mirror, begs the beast to behave, and then picks up a violin from his bed.  He’s not going to use it, after all, so it’s best he finally hands it off to someone who will.

John’s crown is silver too, but there are bits of gold twisted in.  It had been a hell of a time, finding a crown that didn’t fade into red hair, but these days John’s hair is more like golden straw, thin and coarse and dry.  It matches the rest of him, grey skin and empty eyes.  “You look like shit,” says Virgil.

John doesn’t look up from his books.  “You try spending a decade and a half in a library.  We’ll see how you look.”

“Brought you a violin.”

“I have a violin.”

“This is her violin.”

And that, at least, gets John to look up.  His eyes aren’t as striking as they once were.  Virgil can remember seeing entire gardens in those eyes, but no now.  Not in a long time.  “I have a violin,” he says again.

“No, I know,” he says.  “But I figured you might like playing on hers—”

“That’s yours.”

“It’s _hers_ ,” Virgil tells him, teeth screwed together.

John smiles, and god what a weak smile it is.  “I know it’s hers,” he says.  “But one day you’re going to want to play again, and it’ll be yours, too.”

The name goes unspoken and, really, it’s not exactly a name at all.   _Mother_.  What the two of them would do to hear their mother play another string.  Sing another note.  Live just another song.  “I’m tired of looking at it, John.”

John nods, eyes returning to his books.  “Fine, fine,” he says.  “You may leave it here, but when you want it again, it will be in the same spot you left it.  I already have a violin.”

Virgil leans the instrument up against a corner where shelf and wall meet.  He hopes John knows not to let it get dusty. “Thanks.  Thank you—um.  You alright up here?” he asks.  “It’s going to be a long night.”

“I imagine my night won’t be nearly as long as your night,” John replies, turning the thick, parchment page of a new book.  “How did you get that scratch, Virgil?  That new one, just along the back of your neck?”

“Fell off my horse.”

“Odd,” John says.  “For such an excellent rider, you certainly do fall from your horse quite often.”

Virgil often wonders how much John knows, spending all these hours alone in his library, looking down on the rest of the world from his view in his tower.  Virgil often _fears_ how much John knows as well, but tonight is not a night for this debate.  “Anyways John, just let us know if you need anything.  Send someone down if you think—”

“Yes, yes,” John says with a wave.  “I’ll be just fine.”

“Okay,” Virgil says.  “Yeah, okay.”

But, he has to admit, the violin is not the only reason for his visit.  “How many of these books do you think you’ve read?”

This earns him a laugh—a real, honest to god laugh—from someone whom Virgil had just assumed couldn’t remember what laughing was.  “All of them.”

This, it turns out, doesn’t surprise Virgil as much as he’d thought it would.  “Do any of them mention a Woman in the Water?”

John nods, turning another page.  “Sure,” he says.  “Nymphs.  Sirens.  Mermaids—take your pick.”

“What about sorceresses?”

John seems to ponder this, but it’s not long before he shakes his head.  “I suppose she could cast a spell, but I haven’t read of such a thing.  Why?”

“No reason.”

“ _Why_?”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Virgil tells him.  “I should really be getting downstairs anyways.”

John gives an unconcerned grunt.  “Fine.  Say hello to Gordon for me.”


	14. The Words of Frustrated Sons

The doors are closed and Scott’s tie feels too tight.  There isn’t enough light in the grand foyer and so the flame latches on to every bit of gold it can find—golden frames around golden art, golden fixtures holding up golden candles, ornate golden carvings lining a grand, golden staircase.  It’s all too rich, tastes too sweet, feels like too much  _wealth_.  Why is he always surrounded in such wealth?  He doesn’t deserve it—gods above, he doesn’t deserve _any_ of this and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever—

“Scott?”

He doesn’t know how she does that.  How she draws him back with a single word.  It’s not just now, it’s _always_ , and he’s not quite sure what he’s done in his life to deserve the girl with the golden hair.  “Hmm?”

Penelope squeezes his hand, her smile soft and reassuring.  What little light there is leaves streaks in her hair, a glow on her skin, taints her dainty silver crown in deep, dark oranges.  “It’s okay, Scott,” she tells him.  “It’s going to be okay.”

He doesn’t know how she can be so sure—how she can say, with absolute certainty, that anything will ever be okay again—especially when he himself is so completely positive that the world is only filled with hatred and anger and _guilt_. 

There will be two boats setting sail tonight.  One for his father.  One for his mother.  Neither of them are here to bless the marriage and that’s his fault.  He _knows_ it’s his fault, and so he doesn’t answer Penelope.  Instead, his eyes stay fixed on the doors that lead out to the beach, watching the flame dance in their golden hinges, as his mind replays one of his worst nights with such inexorable vibrancy that Scott swears he’s eleven years old again.

Because there’s no way for him to forget that night—no way for him to forget the sight of his own mother, unable to even lift her head from the pillows.  There hadn’t been enough light then, either, leaving the shadows plenty of room to swallow her whole.  They’d been everywhere, curled up around her neck, sunken into her cheeks and her eyes.  He can’t forget what it felt like to see his mother, day after day, with a reaper waiting in her eyes.

It’s really not fair.  He was young.  He was angry and he was so, _so_ scared, but more than anything, he was frustrated.  All his life, she’d called him her little prince.  All his life, hewas supposed to be able to save people, to help people, to slay the beast.

But he can’t slay illness.  No one can.

And so when his mother had fallen ill, it had been an aggressive combination of helplessness and hopelessness, tied together with a single strand of terror.  It had been long nights over too many months, building and building until Scott couldn’t take it anymore.  Until the frustration sparked tears in his eyes and crossed arms and the stomp of a little eleven-year-old foot.  “You’ll never get better.   _Never_.”

So Scott had said.  So it shall be.

“No.  No, you mustn’t say things like that, little prince,” she had said.  He can still remember the absence in her voice—the threat of an oncoming cough.  “You mustn’t ever say these things.”

“Well it’s _true_ ,” he’d hollered, back turned, pouting lip.  He didn’t want her to see him cry.  What he would give to have taken one last look.  “It would have happened by now.  I can’t even remember what you’re like when you’re _not_ sick.”

“Oh, Scott…” But whatever she’s wanted to say, she didn’t get the chance, because that was when he decided to run away.

Their mother had died that night.

Scott doesn’t know if it was his fault, exactly.  Even now, he isn’t sure that his commands can trifle with life and death, but it’s possible—likely, in fact—that it’s too much of a coincidence to actually be a coincidence at all.  It’s the reason John’s stuck up in that damn library, the reason they’ve spent years stretching Scott’s limits.  In the end, it comes down to one question that Scott knows and John doesn’t: did Scott kill his mother?

As far as Scott’s concerned, the answer is yes.

Which, of course, means that he drove his father to his grave as well.  Long nights of searching for the cure, trying to make it so that no one else becomes wifeless, motherless, by way of this terrible disease.  Scott’s never had the heart to tell him that it’s _his_ fault, that she might still be here if not for what _he_ said.

And during one of his searches, he didn’t come home.  Now they’re sailing two boats tonight, and Scott’s too young to be a king.

“Scott.”

Her voice is stronger now, and again she manages to string him right back into reality.  “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t need to do this.”

“No,” he says, absentminded at first, then with more conviction.  “No, I—I have to do this.  I don’t think you understand why I _have_ to do this.”

“Scott.”  She turns towards him, and then both of his hands are in hers.  Silver eyes look up at him in that golden room, and Scott feels ice crystalize down his back.  “Your kingdom will understand.  Everyone will understand if you—”

“I have to do this—”

“No you don’t—”

“I’m going to be their _king._ I can’t let something like this affect me.  I can’t—”

“Scott.”

“I can’t—I can’t just—”

“ _Scott_.”

“I can’t be their king, Penelope,” he tells her, and only when she swipes a tear away does he realize that he really is eleven years old again.  “I’ll say something wrong—I’ll—I don’t _deserve_ this.”

Her shushes brush across his voice like the tide across the shore, rhythmic and soothing and powerful.  Her fingers find her way to that tie that’s too tight, and she pulls it loose—looser than it should be, but at least he can breathe just a little bit better.  “Listen to me, okay?” she says.  “We will go out there, we will make our speeches, and then we’ll come in as soon as the boats set sail, okay?  No diplomacy.  Not tonight.  We’ll come inside and then you and I will have a nice long talk, okay?”

She straightens his crown atop his head, swipes the sleeves of his mourning suit clean.  In the golden light of those dim flames he looks at her, wondering if he should tell her, wondering if she has the right to know that he’s responsible for so much death, so much heartache—even more than she already knows, and she already knows a lot.  

Except even now he knows that he can’t tell her.  That he couldn’t dare.  The secret of his mother’s murder is one he will take to his grave.

“Okay,” he says, wiping his eyes dry.  “Oh god, okay.  My speech.  I don’t know—”

“John wrote it down for you,” she says.  “I put it in your inside pocket this afternoon—Scott?”

She looks at him, _really_ looks at him.  She’s doing that so much more now and he can’t say he hates it.  “If you want leave, you tell me,” she says.  “You say the word and we’ll leave.”

He might just be the luckiest man alive, having her as his queen.  

He nods, and she takes his arm once more.  The two of them side-by-side, dressed in all black and standing tall like the king and queen they are about to be.  With one last gentle squeeze of his arm, the doors open, and his kingdom stares back at him.

The boats are already lit, waiting for the speeches to be made.  Waiting to be sent off into the sea.  Waiting for the prayers of two kingdoms to drift away into the horizon—into some far off land they can’t see.

The flames burn golden against inky black waters.  His parents' boats burn.  They didn’t deserve this.  

He wonders if he’ll ever see the light again.


	15. The Hunt for Five Princes

It picks them off one by one, those famously tough Tracy boys.  Knights and princes, musicians and scholars, each of them as capable with a sword as the last, but the stars are out.  Their mother’s boat burns next to their father’s.  It’s two sleeps until the wedding, and the five princes stand mourning, looking out across their tiny island at the center of the sea, wishing that it didn’t feel so big.

It’s a beautiful ceremony, and maybe it’s cruel to say so, but it’s the truth.  Scott’s garden has been plucked clean of deep blue hydrangeas, tufts of them left on every third step all the way down the magnificent stone staircase.  The common people congregate below, dressed up in their blacks and in their blues, each of them sure to grant well-wishes and condolences to the two princes who stand with them at the bottom.  There should be four of them, everyone knows, but Prince Gordon never leaves his ship and Prince John is said to have locked himself up in his library, too overwhelmed with with grief to even descend the stairs. 

And so it’s just the two of them, Virgil and Alan, standing at the base of the steps.  Penelope and Scott make their entrance and if someone were to pay close attention, they might notice the way she keeps her prince standing, might notice the way he holds her hand too tightly as he reads from a stiff piece of paper through an even stiffer jaw.  No one does notice, of course.  Prince Scott is strong.  He stands tall.  The kingdom believes him to be brave and noble and knightly, just like his father.  He would never need a princess just to hold him up.

Gordon is the first to go.  Of course he is, because Gordon has the unique disadvantage of knowing all his heart’s desires during every moment of resented consciousness.  He’s gone on for hours about all the things he most desperately craves—his mother’s laugh, his father’s guidance, the Princess Penelope Creighton-Ward herself and all of her ugliest imperfections.  Moments like these—moments composed of sentiment and sadness and longing.  They take a toll on that particular prince’s heart, especially when he cannot jest his way into a smile.

He steps into his cabin and shuts the door behind him.  The night takes one.

Virgil is next, and he’s been itching to take off all night.  It’s the most curious thing, watching cool, calm Virgil as he taps his foot and flicks his fingers.  There’s a patch of bright red skin across the back oh his neck, right at the base of his silver crown.  He keeps scratching and scratching and scratching—something’s wrong.  Of course something’s wrong.  His parents’ boats are on fire, and Scott’s giving his speech, and none of them want to be here.

He disappears before Penelope takes her turn to address the people.  The night takes another.

The boats are sent into the sea by the knights that their father had served with, all of them now official guards of the palace.  The fabric at their legs turns dark as they step into the water and somewhere, up in the tower that looks over the sea, a violin begins to play.  It’s soft, muffled, just as trapped as the boy who plays, but the crowd is so quiet that it makes no difference how loud he plays. Everything feels too distant.  It’s their mother’s lullaby—the _ghost_ of their mother’s lullaby—and there are only a few people in attendance who know that John doesn’t quite make it to the proper end of the tune.

And then Alan—little Alan—not yet a year old when his mother had passed, just barely a decade at the start of the search for his father.  He has so little connection to his parents, so his mourning is not for them.  His mourning is for him, for all that he’s missed, for all that he’ll never have.  He too, slips away before the ceremony concludes, overwhelmed by all of the apologies and good wishes that aren’t his to accept.  

He tucks some sort of map in his back pocket—always a map—and slips through the crowd towards Gordon’s ships.  

And then there was one.

Everything about him in that moment is Prince Scott.  King Scott, perhaps.  He watches the boats leave with an immeasurable amount of absolute maturity.  He could just as easily be leading an army, be discussing the rations of food, be sitting upon his throne.  It feels as though no one—nothing—could strike him down.  Invincibility at its finest. 

But Invincibility is a liar’s game, and Penelope has always had an eye for liars.

She sees the clench in his jaw, hears the breaths—too low, too controlled—as the two of them stand side by side.  His fingers are laced through hers as a carefully calculated display of unity between the kingdoms, but his hand is white-hot in her own and his grip is far too tight.  He holds onto her as if the slightest breeze could be responsible for his inevitable fall down that great, grand staircase.  

He won’t leave.  She know he won’t leave—knows he won’t prioritize his own mourning over that of his people, because it’s how his mother taught him to act.

Except Scott _needs_ to leave.  If he won’t prioritize himself, then he’ll have to settle for prioritizing his wife.

Her father looms nearby, standing stately to the side as he watches the boats of dear friends now lost.  She wonders, briefly, how her father is doing.  The oldest king of the three kingdoms, facing a threat from the east, with an inexperienced young prince as his only ally.

But the fact is that her father now comes second to the man she will soon call her husband.  Right now, Scott needs here more.  “I’m actually feeling quite ill,” she whispers to her father.  “I think I need to go inside and sit down.”

Her father stares at her, looking very much like a man who has seen sickness in his little girl and cannot see it now.  Next, he shifts his gaze to Scott and then, with one final look at her, he nods.  “Of course,” he says.  “I will alert the people that the _princess_ is feeling ill.”

She smiles at him.  He smiles back.  

And then, Scott.

“Scott, darling,” she says.  “Let’s go.”

“Not yet.”

She brings another hand to his, one holding below, one holding above.  “Scott,” she says, almost begs.  “Look around.  Your brothers are gone.  You did it.  Please, let’s go inside.”

“I need to stay.”

“I will not let you tear open the wound for any longer,” she tells him.  “We are going inside, we are making you warm tea, and you’re going to _talk to me_ , Scott.”

And so Penelope says.  And so it shall be.  He looks down to her, eyes rimmed with red, and he nods.  His grip around her hand slackens.  “Okay,” he breathes.  “Yeah, okay.”

She nods back at him, pulls him by the hand until the two of them are back on the other side of the doors.  There are no more members of House Tracy standing over their people and, in fact, Penelope doubts that there are any more members of House Tracy _standing_ at all, because as soon as they reach the golden staircase in the center of the foyer, Scott sits, out of breath, and pulls his hands through his hair.  “Why can’t they just… _be dead_?” Scott wonders.  “Why won’t they allow them to just be _dead_?”

Penelope is unsure about what she’s supposed to do in this situation.  All she knows is that she shouldn’t leave him like this—doesn’t _want_ to leave him like this—so she sits at his side, the black of her mourning gown bleeding out across the shining steps.  


	16. A Boat for Baby Brother

Alan barrels onto the ship, ducking beneath swinging sails, slipping past piles of rope.  He bolts between men twice his size, landing on a puddle and smiling as he skids his way across the deck.  Gordon grabs the back of the boy’s collar, plucking him straight from the fun.  “If you run on my deck again, it’ll be the last time you set foot on this ship, clear?”

It’s as if Alan doesn’t even hear him.  “I brought my maps,” he says, reaching into his pocket and peeling the parchment apart.  The folds crack and cry as he flattens them, but it doesn’t seem like he notices.  “I can _prove_ that the stars are falling and all I have to do is talk to Gaat about how—”

“ _Easy_ there,” Gordon says, and it’s obvious by his expression that these are the absolute last words Alan want to hear.  “First of all, it’s still _King_ Gaat.  You’ll treat him with respect, even if you don’t think he deserves it.  Secondly, there’s something I want to show you before we take off on your brilliant adventure into Balthazar.”

“Can’t it wait?”  Alan asks.  “You said _after the memorial_ , and now—”

“I know what I said,” Gordon tells him, hand falling onto little brother’s shoulder.  “And I meant it, too.  You’ll get a chance to show me your maps and tell me all your knightly speeches that you no doubt have planned, but first I want to show you something.”

“But—”

“Just a slight detour, Alan,” he says.  “It’s important—Parker.  Are we ready?”

For as long as Gordon’s known him, the moon has had a way of carving deeper into Parker’s wrinkles.  The man has always been made up of grey, always been pinned beneath far more years than Gordon will ever get, but tonight, moon nearly full, is the first time Parker has ever really looked _old_  in the moonlight.  “Aye Captain.  The crew’s ready.”  He steals a glance at Alan, then back to Gordon.  “But I wonder, sir, if you are.”

“As we’ll ever be,” Gordon says, and he doesn’t linger.  Doesn’t dare.  He just pops up his steps, two at a time, until he’s up on the higher deck and the wind dances through his hair.  “Let’s get this over with.”

There’s the howl of a wolf in the distance, then a howl from Parker across the deck.  Soon enough, the sea splits down the sides of Gordon’s leading ship, slowly and steadily making its way from the docks.  Alan grumbles all the way up the stairs, tucking his maps back into his pockets.  

“You’re still wearing your crown, you know,” Gordon says.

Alan snatches the thing from his head, silver with red rubies.  It’s the reaction all of his brothers have when the night comes to a close, when it’s time to stop being princes, when they’re no longer putting on a show, but Gordon suspects that there is something different about the way Alan pulls his crown off.  Gordon suspects that not even Alan believes in that part of himself.  

“I didn’t mean you had to take it off.”

Alan shrugs.  “I could use a break.  I’ll have to wear it for Gaat and, I mean, this thing is _heavy_.”

Truthfully the crown isn’t all that heavy at all and in fact, Alan might just have the lightest of the five, but there’s no need for correction.  Gordon knows the weight that comes with the crown.  “Careful not to lose it.  Scott’ll have my head.”

“Scott’s _already_ gonna have your head,” Alan tells him.  “You left the memorial before he could even finish his speech.”

Gordon gives up a laugh, short, sweet, and not at all humored.  “I _wrote_  that speech,” Gordon says.  “And then I wrote half of Penelope’s.”

“ _Penelope_ ,” Alan gushes.  “You know, most people put a _Princess_ in front of that name.”

“Oh, shut up,” says Gordon.  “I’m just saying that I didn’t exactly miss anything.  And I guarantee you that Scott had plenty of other things on his mind.  I bet he didn’t even notice me slipping away.”

“Yeah, Scott never really does notice that sort of thing.”

The ship is sailing now, and the two boys at its front are up against a steady stream of wind.  Gordon looks down at his little brother who, in turn, looks down at the water.  The moon is out and Parker isn’t the only one who looks old.  “How’re you doing, Al?” he wonders.  “I’ve been away a long time.”

It’s a moment before there’s an answer—a moment of spotting the stars in the sea, of watching the moon ripple across the surface.  There’s one breath, two, and then Alan looks back up to his big brother with a smile that Gordon’s seen before.  “You did miss something.”

“I… what?”

“At the memorial,” Alan says, and Gordon can’t help but notice that this is decidedly _not_ an answer to his question.  “You said you didn’t miss anything, but you did.  You didn’t see their boats set sail.”

Gordon smiles, because he remembers when the very thought of missing the boats leave had bothered him for days at a time.  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says.  “Take a look at the horizon, not far out.”

Alan does, and Gordon joins him.  The flames are still side-by-side and of course they are.  The king and queen had always been side-by-side.  Together in life, together in death.  There’s a tug in Gordon’s chest as he wonders what it must have been like, to posses such a courage.  To defy orders, to defy destiny, to start _wars_ that would come to last generations.  Wouldn’t it all be worth it, to live throughout your death alongside the one person you would happily die for?

Gordon doesn’t know what it’s like to have such courage, but he does know what it’s like to have such love.  That, perhaps, is the worst curse of them all.

“Are those—?”

“Someone’s got to bring the boats back to land, Alan.”

It’s not something that anyone pays any mind to—not something that’s instinctual to think about.  The first time anyone had told him to bring his mother’s boat back to land, a sheer black veil had been lifted from his eyes and the magic had disappeared.  All of the hope, all of the wishes, all of those deep, dark desires that he had sent sailing away were now back, splashing over onto his deck as he and his crew pulled it out of the water.

Surely they used new boats each time, he had thought.

Surely the boats just _vanished_ to the sea, scooped up by the hand of God himself, perhaps.

Surely the world is not so cruel, so raw, so  _honest_  that it would make a son bring his own mother’s spirit home each and every time he tried to send it away.

Gordon can see these thoughts crossing Alan’s mind now, and although a part of him regrets letting the magic die, he figures that Alan has enough magic in his life, dictating every word, every movement, every belief.  Now is the time for truth.  Now is the time for realization.  “When you go charging into Kingdom Balthazar,” Gordon says, “I want you to remember this.  I want you to remember that if something happens to you there, it’s going to hurt people at home.  I’m _not_ going to bring your boat back, Alan—I won’t do it.”

“What do you think I’m planning to do over there?”

“I don’t know.”  The words are as honest as they get.  “I don’t know what your plan is, but I know that you’re angry and that you’re desperate, and I know it’s all justified, but _god_.  I don’t want to bring your boat home, Al.  I don’t want another person gone—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Alan tells him.  His eyes are hard and, for a moment, Gordon swears he’s looking at Scott.  There’s a little bit of the man who only speaks law, buried within the boy who no one believes.  “I already _am_ gone.  I was gone the second Scott cursed me, the second Gaat— _King_  Gaat—put that curse on Scott in the first place.  I want to _exist_ again, Gordon, so believe me.  No boats.  Not for me—not for a long time.  I’m not going to disappear any more than I already have.”

And maybe, just _maybe_ , Gordon believes him.

There’s a quick nod from the oldest.  “Okay,” he says, trying his very hardest to at least _trust_ , if not believe.  “Okay, Al.  Alright.  Help us get these boats up and then you can show me the maps.”


	17. The Strike of Lone Wolves

The chains are broken.

And he knows— _knows_ that this is bad, that this isn’t supposed to happen, that someone is going to get _hurt_ , but he just can’t seem to make himself care.  His thoughts dissolve as quickly as his frosted breaths as he darts between the tallest trees in the three kingdoms.  Paws land agains fallen pine leaves and forgotten pebbles, the wind stroking his hair with every last strut, and Virgil knows that the beast has taken charge.

He tries his damnedest.  He knows that no good deed can ever come from letting a beast leave its chains at night and it is only a show of his own weaknesses that he cannot force the beast back to the stables.  

The moon shines brightly overhead, hardly a sliver in the shadows, but the ground beneath him is dark and cold and _christ._ Princes are supposed to slay the beast, not become one.

He can’t let anything happen.

He can’t let the beast take control.

He will not allow himself to become a monster. 

The thought puts an end to the race towards the center of the forest and the two of them, boy and beast, stand frozen in a state of simultaneous advancement and retreat.  There’s an impulse to run, met with absolute refusal, until the beast strikes him across the eye and Virgil is forced out of his own head.  Or is it the beast’s head?  He can no longer tell where he ends and the beast begins.

They take off again, crimson staining the rock below as they run.  Usually he can’t hear the sea from this deep in the forest.  Usually he can’t smell the salt until he reaches the stream.

The stream.

He doesn’t understand it, this broken, beaten sort of determination.  It seems as though this single place always calls to him, as a man looking for a break or as wolf looking for… _something_.  Something. He’s all worked up and there’s a desire—a _need_ —to reach the stream, but his body moves without his will and Virgil wonders if he’ll ever have control again.

As the pair of them race into the clearing—because that is what they are.  A pair, and nothing less—there is one very clear, very crucial fact which even the most human part of him notices.  The stream is running the wrong way.

The part of him that isn’t actually him springs to life and Virgil can’t help but think of Max, bouncing up and down at Virgil’s feet, happy to have someone to play with.  They sprint to the stream, cold ground breaking the trance of the warm air.  

When he sees his own reflection, the world seems to spin.  That tiny island at the center of the sea must shift, because Virgil only sees waves in that stream.  Waves and wolf and no one else.

Until he sees her.  “And a very good evening to you, too, wolf.”

If Virgil could speak, he might snarl, but the beast is much stronger than he is.  The moon is much more light than dark.  As it is, there’s nothing more but a whimper and a perfectly grey paw striking the water’s surface.

“An omega,” she says.  “Be careful, little wolf.  Loneliness is a very dangerous thing for something like you.”

Everything within him feels warm and certain, all of it so utterly contrary to the things he _wants_ to feel, the things he _understands_.  He exists on two polar ends of a spectrum at the very same time and the war it wages leaves battle lines undrawn and unclear.  

“I see that you’ve clearly already had your struggles,” she says, looking directly at the newest gash across his eye.  “Man believes itself to be so strong.”

And this time Virgil does break through, his snap surely an indication that this is not his fault, that the beast struck him, that he is not in the wrong.

“No, of course not,” she says.  “It could never be your fault, right?  You are man, and this animal is an inconvenience—a _parasite_ using your resources.”

They are the words he wants to hear, but the way they rattle warns him not to get any closer. 

“This creature is a creature like any other,” she tells him.  “It depends upon you and what do you do?  You chain it up, force it to live alone, not even sparing a scrap of food.  No wonder it leaves marks across you.”

He didn’t ask for this.  He doesn’t want it.

“Both of you are the wolf,” she says, sternly.  “But only one of you is a beast.”

The words lash him, venomous and brilliantly painful—except no.  This pain is not words.  His spine begins to burn and his shoulders stretch.  Perhaps it is the wolf that howls, but more likely it is Virgil, as the pair of them split once more, straight down the center.  It’s a gross, gasping tear, or at least that is what it feels like.  It sparks the world into spots, black and empty and blinding until he can no longer hold himself upright.

When he falls, he falls beside the stream, fingertips laying limp along the surface.  He won’t take this any longer— _can’t_ take this any longer.  “What is your name?” he rasps, a prayer for his only hope.  “What is your name so that I may find you?”

But his hand is human once more, the stream flowing the right way across his skin, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is really, truly alone.

Perhaps it is a minute.  Perhaps it is an hour.  Perhaps an entire moon passes before he hears the barking.  “You got him, boy?” asks a blessed voice, distant and echoed and separate.  “Good boy, Max, good boy.”


	18. A Shift of Secret Keepers

Never.   _Never_.  You’ll never get better.

It’s nothing new, this senseless repetition in his head.  If he were a wizard, it would be a spell he couldn’t cast.  If he were a choir, it would be a song he couldn’t sing, but he is neither of these things.  He is a boy with a curse and, more importantly, a son without a mother.

You’ll never get better.   _Never_.

The words have their own rhythm—a cadence, a chant, a relentless bang—and they’re only ever louder on nights like this.  Sure, he hears them at the empty dining table.  He feels them in the silences where his mother’s songs once were.  Each new day is a promise to forget them tomorrow, and each tomorrow is a new day, but some days are even worse than they should be.  Some days he watches his mother’s boat leave, watches his father’s flame as the sea swallows it whole.  Some days he vows to fire the town caller and replace him with the voice in his own head.

Never.  Never get better.

He’s lucky to have Penelope.  Whatever he may mean to her and whatever she may mean to him, he’s lucky to have her—to _know_ her.  To even exist in her presence.  “Drink.”

He takes the cup from her, a dainty piece of porcelain in her determined grip.  The sides are painted with flowers, thorny grey vines tying together faded red roses.  Gordon had brought the set home years ago, making wild claims about the far off land from which it came, but Scott hardly remembers the stories.  It’s all he can do to sip without spilling.

Penelope pours herself a glass as well, steam catching the glow of the nearby fireplace.  Blessedly, she understands the importance of silence and doesn’t waste time filling the space between them with uselessness.  She will wait—wait as long as it takes for Scott to reign in that voice in his head and start talking.

Never.  Never.   _Never._

She’s ready to listen and there’s so much he could tell her—so much he _wants_ to tell her.  And yet the two of them sit there, tea taking on a chill, as Scott’s throat swells with the poison of secrets.  He’s been choking back this one for so long that he’s not sure it’ll ever surface, not sure if he’ll ever _breathe_ again.  Soon she will be his wife, his queen, his partner in absolutely everything, and he needs her to trust him.  It is for this reason, and this reason alone, the he needs to tell her.  It is also the reason he cannot.

And even she can only take a silence for so long.  “Scott,” she says, setting the teacup aside.  Her hands fall in her lap, as perfect as a princess can be, but her expression is that of a little girl who can’t possibly climb down from the tree.  “Please say something.”

It’s an invitation to say all that he’s thinking—to recite the words that plow through his thoughts on a daily basis.  You’ll never get better.   _Never_.

He doesn’t take it.  “You delivered your speech very well,” he says instead.  “The people adored you.”

She hangs on to the end of his sentence, like maybe she’s expecting more, but then she gives up.  “And you.  Eloquent and still powerful—it is so hard to manage both, you know.”

“Thank you.”

 _Never_.

He takes another sip.  “Who, um”—he clears his throat—”Who did you say wrote that, again?”

“John.”  She doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s so bizarre,” Scott tells her.  “It read like Gordon—”

“Is there something you’d like to talk about, Scott?”  Her eyes are fixed on him in a way that they never are and Scott knows, without a doubt, that he is no longer the most commanding person in the room.  “Because only an hour ago you couldn’t even stand on your own two feet, so I’m wondering when you plan to cut the act and count on your wife to be there for you.”

Never, never, _never_.

“I, um—”

You’ll never get better.

“I wasn’t… mmm.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that it will make the voices go away.  Out of sight, out of mind.  When he opens them again, the words are still there, as is Penelope.

 _Never_.

He will never tell her.  He couldn’t possibly dare.  His kingdom is depending upon this marriage.  His closest brother is her very best friend.  Treason, conspiracy, and how many others?  She would never look at him the same way if she knew—knew that he was ultimately responsible for the death of the most beloved queen in all the three kingdoms.  

You’ll never get better.   _Never_.

But she’s looking at him.   _Really_ looking at him.  Eyes like diamond, determination like steel.  Everything about her is strong, but he knows that it would only take a few wrong words to break her.  Penelope is not as indestructible as she thinks she is, and she deserves to know that.  She deserves to know what he’s capable of.  In the end, refusing her the truth is no better than commanding her to stay.

Never.   _Never_.  You will never get better.   _Nev—_

“I killed my mother.”

The words are out, dusty and worn after all these years.  They do not echo in this room, not like they do in his head, and he has to wonder what comes next.  And, actually, what happens next surprises him, because he swears he sees his own heart shatter in Penelope’s eyes.  

She reaches out to him, careful.  Purposeful.  There is never any absentmindedness between the two of them, but when her hand falls into his, he’s almost able to trick himself into thinking that there could be.  “I know you think that,” she says.

“No you don’t understa—”

“I do, Scott,” she says. “I know.  I’ve known for quite a while.”

It takes him another moment, another call of a vengeful _never_ in his mind, before he realizes that she  _does_ know.  That she  _must_ if she's looking at him that way, speaking to him that way, telling him that it's all going to be fine.  And then, panic, because if she knows, then so does someone else.  “How—oh god.  How long?”

“Ever since Gordon—”

“ _Gordon_.”  Scott jumps up, suddenly pacing as the hand once held by Penelope now races through his hair.  “Of _course_ Gordon told you.  I should have known.  I should have made him—”

“Gordon didn’t tell me, Scott,” she says.  “I told him.  I’m the reason the thought ever occurred to him in the first place.”

“Well how did _you_ know?”

“I know a great many things,” she says.  “If I stopped to explain them all to you, we will have already lived through our entire marriage—please sit down.”

“I need to know how—”

“You need to trust me,” she tells him, patting the plush beside her.  “You are safe.  Your brothers are safe.  No one knows.  And, Scott?”

He stops where he stands, struck into place by the sound of his name.  

“I do not think you killed your mother.”

“You don’t know—”

“She was sick for a very long time,” Penelope reminds him.  “If you did play some sort of role—which I am quite certain you did not—then it was only to end her suffering that much sooner.”

“But—”

“Comes sit,” she says.  “Please.”

Maybe it is the way she says it, or maybe it is simply due to the fact that he finally remembers what it’s like to relax, even if only a little bit, but Scott does as he’s told.  He lets himself sink, further and further, into that overstuffed, gold-rimmed sofa with one less worry than before.  “I’m glad,” he says.  “That you know, I mean.  I am glad that you know.”

“But you weren’t prepared to have someone on your side.  I know,” she says, and with that, she holds his hand again except this time she pulls his whole arm over her shoulder.  Somehow, the two of them are together.  “Scott Tracy, from now on I am _always_ on your side.”

She smells like pink.  Feels like a feather.  Everything about this moment feels forced and outrageous, but it’s not unpleasant.  He thinks that, maybe one day, it could feel less forced.  Less outrageous.  “Penelope?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think that you could love me?”  There is no answer and he realizes that it may be a little bit of an odd question, so he goes on.  “If given enough years, enough days, enough seconds—if we took the time to count every star in the sky together, do you think that you could one day love me?”

It is perhaps an unfair question.  He realizes this a moment too late, but by the time he thinks to correct himself, she’s already answering.  “I don’t know,” she says.  “It’s… I don’t know.”

He gets the impression that there is more he isn’t telling her, but then again, Scott has always been wary with uncertainty—with all the _maybe_ s of the world.  And anyways it’s a silly question, so he tries to ask another.  “That’s okay.  That’s fine.  Have you really known about me all this time?  And it didn’t scare you?”

“Ever since that first day of Gordon’s curse,” she tells him.  “And no.  I’ve already told you that you don’t scare me.”

“Why would you tell Gordon, anyways?”

He feels her shrug against his chest.  “He was there,” she says, as if it’s the simplest truth known to history.  “He was there and he was one of the only people I knew who would listen to a young princess mutter on about curses and mothers and such nonsense.”

“I guess I didn’t know you two were so close.”

Her breaths are steady.  “We’re in and out,” she tells him.  “He’s gone so frequently that it’s hard to stay in touch.”

“Not like you and John, then?”

She laughs.  “No.  Definitely not like me and John.”

“Good,” he says.  “A person has to be careful with Gordon.  He’s got a sweet tooth for trouble.”

She looks up at him, smile slim, eyes bright.  “Why is it you question Gordon’s honor and not John’s?”

“John’s never been the marrying type.”

“Neither has Gordon.”

“I suppose, but I think it’s safe to say that those two are on opposite ends of that particular problem.”

She laughs and he knows that she agrees, wholly and truly.  “Opposite ends, indeed.”

And the two of them sit, in front of that golden fireplace, side-by-side and finally without any secrets.  It really is a godsend, having someone by his side.  Someone who can keep up with him, hold his hand, pull his head out of the clouds by the ear if need be.

He hopes it only ever gets better.


	19. The Eyes in the Rabbit Hole

Perhaps they should have felt the waves.  Perhaps they should have noticed the _plink, plink, plink_ of raindrops against wood or the mighty snap of wind against sails.  There had been no shortage of elements, only a distracted determination to ignore them.  That’s the thing about listening to Alan.  It steals every ounce of attention one can even think to spare.  

But one thing that has never been easily ignored, is the voice of Gordon’s first mate.  “Captain!  Unless you want this ship capsized by midnight, might I request your assistance?”

The two princes charge up the stairs and throw open the double doors, only to be smacked, head on, with a merciless downpour.  They’re drenched in mere seconds, cold and heavy, and both boys wonder—for two entirely different reasons—how in the world they could have gone from clear moons to cloudy skies after having traveled so little.  “What the…?”

Before Alan can even finish that thought, Gordon has taken in his surroundings and begins commanding his ship in a way that not even Scott could ever hope to.  It’s all a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to Alan, words he doesn’t understand swallowed whole by the wind, but Alan’s always known Gordon to be at his best when he finally stops listening and just starts _doing_.  Alan doesn’t need to understand him.  It’s not Alan he’s talking to anymore.

Gordon’s men, however, seem to function solely on uniformity and the sound Gordon’s voice.  They scatter across the deck, fighting off wind and lightening and the sort of rain that splices skin.  It’s like watching the stars, Alan realizes, everything in it’s place, everyone moving exactly as they’re supposed to.  Gordon’s ship functions with the same sort of confident consistency as their eons-old solar system, orbiting around their brilliant captain.   

Alan watches them reef the sails, watches them ready anchor, watches as the ship is set in the direction of the waves.  “Watch for shallow waters,” Gordon calls out.  “Alan, tie yourself down.  I’m not losing any men today.”

He follows the order, boat rocking beneath his feet as he ties a knot of rope around his waist.  If there were ever a time to get seasick, this would be it, except Alan’s got his eyes fixed on the sky—on the clouds that hadn’t been there until they had set sail.

And then he hears Gordon’s voice again, letting go of a word that a prince should never say, but a sailor always would.  Alan follows his brother’s gaze, not to the sky, but to the water, and then he too lets out a word he shouldn’t.

“Hold the anchor!” Gordon calls.  “ _Hold the anch—_ Christ.  Alan!  Get up here.  I need your help.”

Except Alan’s frozen, struck by the sight before him.  Slowly, slowly, he steps towards the side of the ship, trying to apply some sort of logic to a situation that is anything but logical.  This time, not even Alan can believe his own two eyes.

He wonders, perhaps, if the ocean is being drained.  Or maybe a giant reached down from the sky and spun their finger in the sea.  He wonders if what he sees is even real at all, because the sky is no longer blue and he’s staring straight into the eye of the largest whirl of water he’s ever seen.  A rabbit hole into another world.  

“ _Alan_.”

But of course it’s real. Of course it is, because Gordon sees it too.  

He runs up the steps, nearly slipping.  When he reaches Gordon’s right hand, the center of that black hole becomes even more obvious, which is probably why Gordon hasn’t stopped swearing in all the time it’s taken Alan to reach him. “I need you to be my extra set of hands.”

Gordon is soaked, water dripping from his lips, his eyelashes, his flattened hair.  Alan figures he must look the same when he answers.  “Ready to help.”

“Don’t talk,” Gordon says, straining against the pull of his ship’s wheel.  “Don’t talk right now.  I need to… I need to know what I’m thinking—I said _hold_ the goddamn _anchor._ We’re getting the hell out of here. _”_

He screams at his crew in a way Alan’s never seen before, face red and splotchy against the unrelenting strike of rainfall.  Alan can’t help but think that if he’d stayed in the kingdom tonight, Gordon wouldn’t need to be yelling at his crew at all.

But guilt will have to wait, because Gordon’s hitting him with enough orders to feel like they’re in a storm all their own.  It’s a whole lot of port and starboard, a whole lot of Wait For My Call, and more than anything it’s Alan, working under Gordon’s orders, and both boys all too aware of that fact.  “Stay with me Al,” he says, sounding tired, like all these years of late nights at sea have caught up to him at exactly the wrong time.  “Almost there.  One more big turn and we’ll wriggle our way out of this.”

The skies seem darker than before, or maybe it just feels that way without any stars to tell him what time it is.  Alan thrives in the nighttime, but nighttime doesn’t usually involve such strain.  His palms blister against the wood of the wheel, despite the fact that they slip with every turn.  His shoulders burn with the weight of a ship sailing against waves and his attempts to steer it to safety.  

He waits for Gordon’s command, just as Gordon waits for the waves to break.  A mist rolls in over the side, leaving frozen pinpricks along his skin.  The boat rocks, rocks, rocks, tipping and tipping until Gordon finally says, “ _Now._ ”

Maybe it’s the rain.  Maybe it’s the wind.  Maybe it’s a combination of the elements, but as the wheel turns under the force of two princes, Alan loses his grip and goes tipping, tipping over the edge until suddenly there is no edge anymore and Alan’s caught in the wind.

The rope spits straight through his gut, stealing the air straight out of his lungs.  It seems impossible to catch his breath again through this storm, drowning as he hangs midair.  The ship’s massive rope suddenly feels like thread, unwinding from its spool as he gets closer and closer to the eye of the needle.  He hears Gordon’s voice, distant and windblown, a speck atop the monster that fights the sea.  

And then he sees eyes.  A single pair of golden green eyes.

The wind spits at him, he blinks, and then the world on the other side of whirlpool is gone.  He feels the tug on his gut as frantic hands reel him in, all the while, the waves fade.  He watches as the sea slows its spinning, watches as the storm shifts.  His back hits the side of the ship, a pair of hands lifting him back on board until both he and his savior—until the two princes—collapse onto the sea-soaked deck.

Gordon’s up on his arm, landing a smack on each of Alan’s cheek.  His words come through heavy, panicked breaths.  “You okay?  You alright—christ, hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alan says.  “I’m fine.”

“C’mon, Al.   _Hey_.  You okay?  Really?”

“Gordon, _believe me_ , I’m fine,” he says, and then Gordon seems to remember who he’s talking to.

He falls onto his back once more, both of them taking in hefty breaths against the deck as they realize, finally, that the stars are out once more.  How the hell are the stars out?

Alan laughs.

Gordon laughs, too.  

For a moment it seems like maybe they could get lost there, somewhere in the middle of the sea, laughing into the night as if weddings and curses are mere annoyances.  “What did I agree to?” Gordon asks the sky.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Alan says through a smile.  “Is this what you get to do _all the time_?”

“No,” chuckles Gordon.

“But that was _amazing,_ ” says Alan.  “You never get any of that sitting up in a dusty old astronomy tower—action.  Adventure.  And did you see those _eyes_?  How creepy was that?”

Gordon turns his head to watch his brother, the smile still there, but not entirely honest.  “What eyes?” he asks.

“The eyes in the water.”

“I didn’t see any eyes.”

Just like that the cold catches up with Alan again.  No.  No of course there were no eyes in the water.  Of course it’s not real, because Gordon didn’t see it.  “Right.   No,” Alan says.  “Must’ve just been some lightening—but _oh man_.  That was _so cool_.”

“I’m glad you think nearly falling overboard into a whirlpool is cool,” Gordon tells him.  “Now c’mon.  Get up.  The sooner we reach Balthazar the better. This whole journey is making me nervous.”


	20. A Task of Great Pleas

“You’re in my library.”

Virgil startles at the words, in the very same way he once used to startle when caught in the middle of some devious, cookie-stealing act, likely in cahoots with Gordon who, for all his schemes, has always made a terrible lookout.  “John,” he says.  “I thought you were asleep.”

John pulls himself up off of the bookshelf upon which he leans and when he moves, Virgil turns.  It’s been a great many years since Virgil has actively tried to hide something from him, but John hasn’t lost his sight for it.  “I was,” he says, stepping closer and closer.  “But you see, a curious thing happens to us humans as the dawn approaches.”

On the other side of Virgil, hidden behind leather-bound pages and mountains of dust, his favorite fairy peers at the brother who doesn’t belong, then gasps.  With a look at John, she draws a line across her own face, then points to Virgil.

The book in John’s hands shuts with a snap, a night’s worth of soot leaving a small puff in the air.  Virgil startles again.  “We wake up,” John says.  “And when I woke up, you were in my library.  Why is that?”

“It’s the palace library.”

John’s laugh is airy and unamused.  “No,” he says.  “This is my library.”

He takes one more step and as Virgil turns away yet again, John thanks the stars that Virgil is not their head of espionage.  Subtlety and finesse do not come naturally to any of his little brothers.  “How did you get that cut?” he asks, cool and even as he slides last night’s read onto the shelf.  “Have you been fighting again?”

Virgil cuts him a look, simultaneously puzzled and astonished, as if only magic could have allowed him to even know the cut was there.  From a purely technical standpoint, that isn’t incorrect.  “What?” says Virgil.  “No.   _No_.  I don’t—I’m not fighting.”

“You can tell me, you know,” John says, straightening the bindings into a clean, crisp line.  “I’m not Scott.”

“I’m not—you’re not always as right as you think you are, John.”

“Mmm.”  John tilts his head, weighing the odds.  “Rarely.”

Except this time when Virgil turns, he turns towards John, and John sees it.  Swollen.  Pink.  It glistens against the flame of the fireplace, and John can’t look away.  There’s three, long gouges across Virgil’s cheek, the longest tapering off at his chin, and Virgil’s lucky to still have that eye.  John swallows, hard.  “Have you been fighting again?” he asks once more, but this time he’s sure the answer must’ve changed.

“Does it _look_ like I got this in a back ally somewhere?”

The answer, overwhelmingly, is no.

“I need your help,” says Virgil, and John tries to remember the last time he’s heard those particular words in that particular order.  “I need—please.  I need to know about those women in the water.  The ones you told me about.  Sirens and… and…”

It’s been a long time since John has felt like a big brother—been a long time since John has felt like anything other than another finished story collecting dust in his library—but this does the trick.  No amount of magic and no variation of curse could have ever had the same effect on John as the way Virgil pleads.  “You said she was a sorceress?”

It seems to catch Virgil off guard, John’s willingness to do anything.  Anything at all.  “Yes,” he says.  “Sorceress.  Yes.”

“Have you slept?”

“I… no.  No, I haven’t.”

Suspicions confirmed, John nods.  “Take my bed,” he says.  “I’ll pull the books and start the search.”

“I want to help,” Virgil says.  “I need to know.”

“The sun brings with it an eventful day, little brother,” John says, two hands falling onto Virgil’s shoulders as he herds him towards a bed.  “You don’t want to fall asleep when wedding bells ring out.  I imagine Heaven doesn’t take well to those who snore over the words of the bishop.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Listening to you sleep is like listening to a wolf’s growl.  Sleep,” John tells him.  “And when you wake, there will be answers.”


	21. A Storm of Missed Warnings

It hadn’t been Gordon’s first storm at sea.  Not by a long shot, because his first storm at sea had been a mere month after setting sail.  A month after the curse.  Nasty thing—hell of a lightning storm with strikes so bright they could blind a man.  He had just been inked with the golden dragon, tail wrapped around his arm, wings spread across his shoulder, and even now he remembers the way it stung in the rain.  The way sheer, soaked cloth stuck to swollen skin.

Granted, there had been no surprises during his first storm.  The sea had not turned to cyclones and they had sensed the shift in wind before they’d been forced into the belly of the beast.  Still.  A storm is a storm and as far as Gordon’s concerned, those who stumble into storms can only ever hope to break-even on the other side.  Unfortunately this is almost never the case.  Storms cause damages, inevitably, unapologetically.  They cause broken windows, splintered bows, and all sorts of expensive inconveniences that require a trip into shore.  Greed is the key component of any thundercloud because storms are never generous.  They only ever take.

In the case of Gordon’s first storm, it had nearly taken a life.

He still remembers it, that burn of saltwater across his sore shoulder.  When he had heard the cry of a man overboard, he hadn’t hesitated. The fact is that most of his crew are merchants out of work, fathers in need of income, and swimming is simply not a requirement for the job.  Maybe it had been stupid to jump into saltwater, arm still healing, while his ship fought off the gods, but it had been up to him.  When you’re a person’s only hope, you have to give them a reason to believe in you.

It had been a miracle, really, for not just one of them, but _both_ of them to make it back to the ship.  Beginners luck, his men would come to say, although it’s true that luck had very little to do with it.  It had taken a great deal of strategy on Gordon’s part because he had known that before he could step foot on his ship again, he had to swim away from it, otherwise the sea would swallow him whole.

And so, he swam.

He swam for hours.  He swam for miles.  He swam until the storm was reduced to nothing more than grey clouds and cool winds.  Hundreds of kicks, his own sailor deadweight in his arms as he swam closer and closer to a distant shore, desperate for a chance to dock and step aboard his ship once more.

They had followed him into land, and maybe _that_  had been luck, the fact that they had spotted him after saving themselves from the storm.  Maybe it had been luck that they’d been able to keep with him, that he hadn’t gotten lost at sea, that when Gordon had reached the edge of the drop off and felt precious relief from a night of kicking, his crew had been there to aid him.

Or maybe, Gordon would soon learn, his very soul is tied to that ship, and it hadn’t been luck at all.

Because it starts at the drop off, that horrible lightheadedness.  Gordon’s plenty used to feeling like he’s going to prune into nonexistence—long nights on the beach and early mornings in the sea have a way of making a boy feel like one day he’ll turn to water.  Except this hadn’t been the sensation he was used to.  This was different.  

It starts at the drop off, the way his fingertips feel like air, turning to clouds before his eyes.  It starts at the drop off, the way water streams down his spine, the way his tongue turns to sand, the way his head begins to throb like waves hitting the shore.  Gordon had watched, completely separate from himself, from his soul, as the golden dragon drip, drip, dripped down his arm and the line between himself and the sea grew thinner.  As he dissolved, the words rang through his head.

_And may you turn to sea foam if ever you try to set foot on dry land again._

So Scott says.  So it shall be.  It is the reason he spends months away from home.  It is the reason he hasn’t seen John since the two of them could tolerate a game of chess together.  It starts at the drop off, and it doesn’t stop until he is a slave to the sea once more.

Gordon looks out across Kingdom Balthazar, everything of importance guarded by a thick line of trees that ring the island.  Down below, his younger brother strides down the ramp and jumps onto sand, maps in his pocket, smile on his lips, and ready for adventure.  Gordon wishes that he could turn this whole ship around—that he had taken the storm as the warning it was clearly meant to be—but Alan’s already dancing off into the dawn and anyways, Parker won’t let Gordon change his mind.  “He’ll be h’alright.  You’ve got to trust the little ones.  They’re usually a bit smarter than we are.”

Trust is never the problem when it comes to Alan.  With Alan, the trouble is almost always belief.  “Is it true what you say?” Gordon asks.  “The stories you tell the others about the night I saved you?  Are they true?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” says the old man.  “Saw me Mum and Dad.  Swear I died that night, but you just wouldn’t let that happen.  Came right back as soon as they pulled me back on board—don’ remember a thing before that except seeing my parents.”

“If something happens to Alan—”

“Ain’t nothing going to ‘appen to him, Cap’n.  I say we get you a drink.”

Parker heads towards the cellars and Gordon knows he should join his crew.  It is, after all, their princess’ wedding day.  The coronation of their king.  It’s a day for celebration, no doubt, but Gordon can’t help feeling like there’s another storm brewing and he wonders what it will take from him this time.

But it’s all blue skies for Alan, who climbs to the edge of the forest with the sort of excitement that only little brothers can feel.  He turns and leaves behind an eager wave, and then Gordon can’t see him anymore.

Maybe it is time for a drink after all.


	22. The Letters of Bitter Roses

Princess Penelope has written and received a great many letters in her time.  Letters from the king, written to her from a far off land with messages of wellness and strict orders to focus hard on her lessons.  Letters from John, bemoaning her absence or asking her to simply walk across the icy sea and visit.  And now, a letter from Scott, sitting on the nightstand next to a bed that is not her own.

She remembers falling asleep—remembers leaning against Scott just as she had so often done with John.  The two of them had gone on for hours, musing about a future uncertain, and she remembers the way his voice had hummed in his chest, low and gentle at her back.  He had been so confident as they listed off their favorite colors, their favorite dinners, their favorite speeches of kings and queens past.  Less confidently, they had spoken of children not yet born and he had disclosed his hope for a son to name after his father.  The night had been at its most intimate when the discussion of wartime arose—that deep, dark dread that this union would only bring doom to the kingdom they would soon share.  The kingdom they would soon rule.

She remembers drooping eyelids and the warmth that he brought.  She remembers a lazy yawn from him, spreading straight through to her.  She remembers, barely, a question left unanswered, although she can’t quite remember who had asked it in the first place, because sleep had already taken her long before their discussion had reached its end.

The night feels so close, so immediate, that when she picks his letter from the nightstand she can almost hear his voice in her ear as she reads.

> My Dearest Penelope,
> 
> I hope that this letter finds you in the utmost restfulness, as rumor states that a foolish prince stole far too many hours from you last night.  I’ve taken the liberty of leaving you in your old summer guest room, thinking that it would be familiar to you when you woke.  I hope that is alright.  I might have stayed, but I am already late for my morning sword drills and anyways, I think we can both agree that you’ll be seeing quite enough of me come evening.  Better that I leave for the garden and give those ladies glancing over my gate one last look before I am wholly yours.
> 
> I know that it is bad luck to view a bride on her wedding day, but my council has asked me to remind you of our meeting with them this afternoon.  We have only a few matters to discuss, some papers to sign, and then we shall part until sunset, when I will meet you on the palace steps and we will promise ourselves to one another.
> 
> I enjoyed our talk last night.  I hope there are many more like it.  I’ve asked my staff to prepare breakfast for you and they’ve assured me that they already know how you like your eggs—sunny side up.  Me too.
> 
> I’ll see you soon.
> 
> Yours, until death do us part,
> 
> Scott

The sun soaks into the room through a towering window and leaves behind large golden squares across the pink and white duvet.  She reads the letter again, warmth falling over her, the morning of her wedding day shining bright.  They are kind words from a kind man, but this is not the reason she smiles.  She smiles because Scott turns his _E_ s the same way that Gordon does, a loop teetering on its edge, and it reminds her of all the letters she’s gotten that reek of the sea.

Because that had been how it had all started—letter after letter with the forth prince of House Tracy, laced with laughter and adventures and legends of the sea.  She still has the very first letter, somewhere, stuck between the pages of a book that had never quite made it to John’s library.

Because it had been John, first.  Gordon hadn’t written to the princess—Gordon hadn’t had the guts.  It had been John who had received his letters, one of them locked in a tower, the other damned to his ship, and both of them in desperate need of the other’s company.  

On the days when Gordon docked, a servant would appear at the top of the library landing, arms filled with titles that John had ordered from around the world, and would add them all to the growing pile of books in need of shelving.  Penelope remembers these days well, as they were the days when John most returned to his old summer smile.  She never quite knew why until she took it upon herself to sort the overwhelming stack of books and learned that Gordon would hide letters, brief and often very silly, between the pages.  

Sometimes they would be colorful, exciting tales of his travels.  Other times they would be angry, bitter writings about seeing the same four walls day after day.  Occasionally, he would read the book before he even got to shore, leaving behind musings for John to work through as he read.  John especially seemed to enjoy these.  Penelope could hardly believe her own eyes on the days she saw her dearest friend laugh.

After her discovery she had insisted, _demanded,_ that she act as carrier between them.  The servants, after all, knew not of the notes between the pages.  What would happen if they were careless with the books—if they dropped a note on the way up the steps?  John could not afford to lose a laugh so easily.  No.  This required a knowledgable, careful party.

She can still remember the look on Gordon’s face the very first time she stepped into his cabin.  “Here is John’s list for your next trip out to sea,” she had said.  “And, thank you.  For all of it.”

Looking back, Gordon likely hadn’t known how deep her thanks went.  He hadn’t even been able to stop blushing at her presence in his cabin.  Blushing.  She has to laugh.  If only he had known that the very first visit would come to be the shortest.  That they would grow longer and longer, the two of them discussing everything from life in the library to life at sea, and all the lives in between.

If only he had known that, one day, she would find his letter in a book that would never quite make it to John’s library.  She didn’t usually look—what was said between the pages were between Gordon and John—except she had spotted her name and curiosity is a curiously difficult thing to resist.

> John,
> 
> I trust you’ve not turned to dust since I last set sail and for that, I congratulate you.  It is not an easy feat, living with the dust and never surrendering to it.  Happy birthday, by the way.  A month too late, but hopefully the brandy I’ve sent up will make up for that—and before you get all twisted up about how Scott won’t let anyone send drinks up, don’t worry.  I’ve sent it with the princess and she’s assured me that it will make it to you.  Except, I guess I really have no way of knowing, do I?  For all I know, she’s working for Scott.
> 
> I actually wanted to talk to you about her.  I know this is getting to be a little bit longer than what I usually send, but I have to know—is she always like that?  So intense, I mean.  Every time I talk to her I feel more idiotic than I actually am.  I’m the captain of a naval fleet—a _naval fleet_ , John—but I still feel like she could crush me with a well-placed flick of her finger.
> 
> I don’t know what I’m trying to say.  Penelope always knows what she’s trying to say.  Sometimes she’ll say something that will make me want to show her the world—sorry.  You don’t care.  I guess I’m just wondering if she’s always this way.  Is she this way with everyone  ~~or is it just when she’s with me?~~  Actually don’t answer.  I don’t really want to know.
> 
> I hope you’re doing okay, Johnny.  She says you’re doing okay.  I hope that’s true.  The Sixth Sea was as spectacular as you thought it would be.  One day we’ll visit, you and me.  One day.
> 
> Gordon

He doesn’t know that she ever saw the note—neither of the boys do—but it sits under lock and key, somewhere back in her own palace, marking the start of a series of letters exchanged between the two of them.  She had written the first, delivered to him at the same time John’s newest list had been.  He’d sent a reply via carrier pigeon and all the letters after that are impossible to count.

She looks at Scott’s letter now.  It smells of roses and she knows beyond a doubt that this is the man she has chosen to marry.  This is the best decision for her kingdom, for her father, for her future.  Roses.  She is choosing roses.

But she holds that sheet of parchment close to her heart, letting her thumb fall across the ridges left behind by little lopsided _E_ s, and she wishes with all her heart that it smelled of the sea.


	23. A Cave for Three Souls

The boy with the all the maps is lost.

It is not something he’s used to—not even the slightest bit.  He’s spent most of his life in a single wing of a single palace on that island at the center of the sea.  Until now, getting lost hadn’t just been unlikely, it had been practically   _impossible._

But this is his third time passing the tree with the odd bark, he’s sure of it, and he hasn’t gotten out of this mud since he first stepped in it.  He’s traveling in circles, coming across his own forgotten footsteps, and when he looks up on instinct, the only stars in sight are made of sunlight, shining through the forest’s thick, willowy canopy.  He is entirely unaligned to the world around him and nothing makes him feel more unbelievable.  

In the forest, the sky is not blue.  In the forest, the sky is green and tall and noisy.  The sky is full of unknown creatures, unknown boundaries, unknown dangers and Alan, for all his talk and all his bravado, wishes for home.  

Beside him, a bush rustles in a manner it hadn’t the first two times he passed and the young prince feels his heart gallop in his chest.  His mind races even faster, imagining every last variation of beast in this forest that may be out for his head.  This is it.  Without even a sword to defend himself, he shall die in the forest of the rival kingdom, and his lost body will rot until it is no more.  

Or it’s a rabbit.  And Alan has overreacted.

Alan startles, but the rabbit doesn’t.  It jets across the mud lands as if it’s running late and Alan figures that if there’s any way out of this forest, the rabbit has a better chance of finding it than he does, so he follows.  He follows through the squish of the mud, through the scratch of the branches, through the pricks of the thorn bushes that snare at his ankles.  He follows through pathless greenery and weedy white gardens, hope dwindling with each step as he wonders whether he’s just traveling deeper and deeper into the forest until—

The rabbit halts.  Alan does too.  Together the pair take in the sight that stands before them—stones.  Not just stones.  They stack and stand in a way that is most definitely  _purposeful_.  a large, arching structure with a single, sturdy doorway.  It’s a hut or a cabin.

Or a nest.

And something in that little rabbit brain must sense a Keep Out sign that Alan can’t see, because the creature darts off in a different direction again.  Alan, though.  Alan does not.  The youngest prince of House Tracy has spent entire periods of his life under lock and key, has spent weeks with potions masters and herbalists and branders.  There is very little that truly scares Alan anymore, for when every night brings with it nightmares of absolute truths turned to undeniable falsities, curiosity seems among the most minor of crimes a crazy prince might commit.

He ducks his head and steps into the cave and the sun vanishes after only a few steps.  The only light along his path is found in the glow worms that line the walls, hundreds, thousands, millions maybe, and Alan travels in absolute awe of all the ways his universe can replace the stars when they’re gone.

The glow becomes heavier and heavier as he walks further into the cave, dense patches of blue light swallowing the walls as he approaches the sound of water dripping from jagged points of limestone.  In the corner of his eye, the glow worms start to wave and wash, until he realizes that he walks along a river, and the reflection makes up even more starlight.

And then something moves.  It is not a rustle—far larger than any rabbit Alan’s ever seen—and he knows that this time, the start he feels is not an overreaction. 

“You have a damaged sense of fear, young one.”

The voice is unlike anything Alan’s ever heard before, roaring and low, echoing throughout that inner mountain without any effort at all.  It shakes him from skin, to muscle, to bone, and he nearly loses his balance, teetering over the edge of a rock which he now realizes to be a cliff.  One more step would have been his doom, so he peers into the florescence in search for his savior.

“Show yourself,” he calls to the darkness.  “I command you to show yourself.”

The laughter is seismic.  “You cannot command me,” says the voice.  There’s another shift in the shadows and Alan swears that he sees scales, a red shine against the glow worms’ blue light.  “But this, you already know.  Have no fear, for your brother could not command me either if he were to try.”

Before Alan can ask what this means, his skin curls under the sudden flash of heat, fire blinding him as it crawls up the walls, flickers of flaming glow worms plummeting to the ground like fallen stars.  Steam hisses as it snakes through the air, leaving behind only an orange glow that fills the cave.  When Alan peels his eyes open once more, he sees it.  Clear as a sunshine day.

The monster must be as tall as his palace, with breath of fire and claws sharper than even his father’s sword.  It sits atop a hoard of silver stones, some of them burning right red like the embers in John’s fireplace.  It’s spiked head resembles a crown—rubies, just like Alan, except the red scales shine all the way down the monster’s spine, and it wears an armor of even smaller links.  As Alan looks out, he cannot hold back the word, the stories he heard as a child returning to him.  “Dragon.”

As it moves, the stones beneath its feet tumble from the pile and sizzle when they drop into the river.  The reek of roasted worms fills his nostrils and he coughs.  “I am a prince of Kingdom Melchior,” he tells the dragon.  “And I—”

“I know who you are, and I know what you seek,” it says.  “Your treasure is just beyond the ledge.”

“Treasure?” says Alan.  “I seek no treasure.”

He feels the dragon’s eyes on him.  The flame makes them look gold but he thinks, maybe, that they are as silver as the stones.  “Mmm.  No.  I suppose not.”

And despite the dark cave and the burning of all the stars within, the skies seem to open for the youngest prince.  “You… you believe me?”

The response is bored as the dragon lays its head back to rest.  Every movement is great and grand and slow, light catching on each and every one of those crimson scales.  “Yes.”

“But the curse,” says Alan.  “The curse says no one will believe me.”

“I am not one,” says the dragon.  “I am many, for three souls rest within me—past, present, and future.  Coexisting.”

The fact is that Prince Alan is a smart boy, capable of great things, but there are some concepts too large for the human mind, even if the human mind doesn’t see them that way.  “You can see through time?” asks the boy.

“I experience no time,” says the dragon.  “I have been alive for six-thousand of your years, but I have experienced indefinitely everything that has happened, everything that will happen, and everything that is happening.  Now please, take your treasure and leave me be.”

“I told you, I seek no treasure,” Alan calls.  “I seek only understanding.  I require a meeting with King Gaat.  Maybe you could direct me out of the forest?”

The dragon lifts its head, neck stretching across the cliff that divides them, and its breath is warm and soggy as it hits Alan’s skin.  “Not far now, young prince,” says the dragon.  “Simply exit the opposite way from which you came, but know that when you return, your treasure is waiting for you.”

“No treasure,” Alan says for a third time.  “And I have no intention of disturbing you again.”

“Intentions are for those who can afford to choose,” says the dragon.

Alan looks at this monster—experiencing past, present, and future all at the same time—and he wonders if maybe there is something he doesn’t know.  Then he wonders if he should turn back, if this is a mistake, if he’s endangering his kingdom.  Alan has never had to considered actions that endanger his kingdom.

Still.  This will make one hell of a story back home.

“What will I call you?” Alan asks.  “You claim that I return.  What will I call you?  How will you know it’s me.”

“My souls experience the world in ways you cannot imagine,” says the dragon.  “Of course I will know it is you.  I know  _all_.”

Alan nods.  “I’ll call you Trinity,” he says.  “For your souls.”

Trinity huffs, a humid wind washing over Alan.  “Take your adventure, young prince,” says Trinity, laying back atop the pile.  “You must die before you receive your treasure.”

And these particular words, perhaps, posses enough meaning to finally strike fear into Melchior’s youngest prince.


	24. A Book of Hidden History

John doesn’t joke.

He doesn’t kid, he doesn’t exaggerate, and he doesn’t do anything halfway.  It is a known fact of the universe—has been true for as long as Virgil can remember—so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised when he wakes up to see John, books horseshoed around him, reading like lightening.  “Oh good,” he says, eyes still skipping over the page.  “You’re awake.”

John sits at the center of the hardwood floor, surrounded by literal _piles_ of information.  The sun streaks through the library’s single window and spins orange hair into golden thread, all of it bundled up into a knotted mess.  His lips mutter as he reads, wordless except in movement, and Virgil wonders how long he could have slept if John is in such a state.  “I did a quick read-through all of the marine encyclopedias, but there wasn’t anything new there.  Mermaids, sirens, nymphs—none of them were your Woman in the Water, so we didn’t linger.”

Under the warmth of too many blankets, Virgil’s not even fully conscious yet, but John is a study in liveliness as he uncrosses long legs, strides across the room, and plummets down onto the covers.  Most impressively, Virgil’s pretty sure he doesn’t stop reading throughout.  “Then instead of looking up water women, we switched to sorceresses and I realized that I hadn’t cataloged one of the books from Gordon’s last trip into shore.  It’s supposed to be an external observation of the three kingdoms, information gathered by an outside scholar over the course of a decade and”—he laughs, throwing the book into Virgil’s laugh—“Holy shit, Virgil.  I mean, holy _shit_.  We thought _our_ family was falling apart…”

John’s got some actual color in his eyes, squinting through a smile, and there’s a moment when Virgil thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to find the Woman in the Water.  Maybe he just needs to find John, wherever he is, buried somewhere deep down.

But the full moon peaks tonight.  Wedding bells are set to chime and Virgil can’t risk letting the beast out.  Not this time.  It’s too strong and if the beast can break even Hiram’s chains, then there’s no telling what it’s capable of.  Virgil cannot endanger his people, so he looks down on his lap to find an intricately lined picture inked across parchment—a man with a staff, serpent coiled around his hand.  Before he can begin to read the text, John jumps in with answers.  “King Gaat,” he says.  “And in the interest of professionalism, I’ll limit my adjectives to _unjust_ and _greedy_.”

“And unprofessionally?”

“A complete dick,” John says.  “Starves his people, hoards the wealth—completely unsuitable to the position he’s in, but I can’t deny that he’s one of the most powerful sorcerers in the three kingdoms, but that’s not exactly hard since he’s one of the _only_ sorcerers in the three kingdoms.  Since the very first settlement, only one family of magic folk has ever been recorded.”

“Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?” asks Virgil.

“Oh wait,” says John.  “It gets better—I’ll summarize.”

John picks up the book again, standing to pace as he turns the pages.  “The Gaat family rose to power after a fair amount of gambling—not just with money, but also with horses, land, _lives_.  They were uniquely skilled at games of luck, which was later revealed to be the work of higher powers.  Passed down their family tree, generations of father to son, was an oracle stone, capable of predicting the future.”

“An oracle stone?” says Virgil.  “Aren’t those kind of… rare?”

John lights up impossibly more.  “The word you are looking for is extinct, yes.  Extremely,” he says.  “Or thought to be, at least.  No idea how they got one, but I’m guessing it was pretty unpleasant for most parties involved.  And it must be pretty important to them, because it’s said to be guarded by the _devil himself,_ but I’m rambling.  The important part is the prophesy.”  

He flips through more pages, quoting exactly what he reads this time.  “When bells sing out that vows are made, nothing then will be the same, for when horizon grabs the sun, to a single family, three kingdoms won.”

Virgil’s a clever prince, but John—when John’s on, he’s _on._ He isn’t just clever, but he’s _good_ at being clever, and so Virgil doesn’t try to decipher.  There’s no doubt in his mind that John has already taken that step.  By the look of him, John has already walked a mile.  “The oracle stated that a single family would take control of the three kingdoms, and Gaat was convinced that it was him—or at the very least, determined to _make_ it him.  Only problem?  He had a brother.”

“Older brother, of course.”

“Of course,” says John.  “Such an inconvenience, those older brothers.”

“Gaat gets caught up in the prophesy,” Virgil concludes.  “Killed his brother, took the throne.”

“Yes.  There’s no proof, but yes,” says John.  “The brother just dropped dead one day after his evening wine and if you ask me, Gaat’s the only one with motive.  Under his brother’s rule, the kingdom was wealthy and prosperous, so there was no need for assassination. If anything, assassination would have occurred with _Gaat_ on the throne, because once he took over there was a significant shift in the economic and political structure.  The kingdom dried out and he needed resources.  Plus he wanted more money, but he always wants more money, which is why—any guesses, Virgil?”

A single, heavy memory weaves its way into Virgil’s mind.  He remembers a moment—nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary—of his mother’s smile, as she talks about love, and the happiness that accompanies it when it is true.  “Which is why he tried to marry Mom.”

John ticks his nose, twice.  “The union of Melchior and Balthazar.  It would have been Gaat’s first step in the direction of ruling all three kingdoms.  Scholars believe that he would have used the resources of the two kingdoms to overtake the third, but we may never know.  The union was cut off by the rebel princess who, quite famously, took the hand of her knight instead.”

“Go Mom.”

“Absolutely.”  There’s a moment of silence between them as each prince soaks in the awe that they hadn’t been able to recognize as young boys.  Then John takes his breath in and his momentum keeps building.  “After that, Gaat returns to his kingdom and the princess—now queen—establishes an alliance with Kingdom Caspar.  Years later, Scott goes over there, offers himself to the princess, yadda yadda, you know this part.  It’s boring.  Ask me about your sorceress in the water.”

John’s absolutely giddy, so Virgil can’t stop a laugh.  “Okay.  What about my sorceress in the water?”

“The original king—the brother.  He had a daughter.”

Virgil feels thee beast, clawing away inside of him.  He doesn’t know if it’s real or if he’s imagining it—can’t tell anymore.  All he knows is that he never wants to share himself with this beast again, and John is telling him that there may be a way out, sitting just across the sea.  “You think—?”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” John tells him.  “Listen to this: after the failed wedding, Gaat wanted to know if the prophesy had changed.  It had, but it was only an addition.  Everything stayed the same, _except_  the new prophesy states that ‘the man who kills will soon be killed by spawn of victim’s blood.’”

“The daughter is going to kill Gaat.”

“See, this is the tricky thing about prophesies,” John tells him, hand frilling through the air, letting his words float.  “It’s hard to say if the prophesy occurs because of, in response to, or regardless to the actual knowledge of prophesy.  Just acting upon it might change it—or it might not.  There’s literally hundreds of theories and none are any closer to being certain than the last, so we don’t know if she would have killed him or not.”

In that moment, John looks like a scholar.  In that moment, Virgil doesn’t doubt that his brother has read every last book in this library.  

“But Gaat must subscribe to the idea that prophesy can be manipulated,” says John.  “Or he’s desperate.  Either way, he enchanted the daughter and—get this—trapped her within the sky’s reflection, so that she would have no way to kill him.”

“He did _what_?”

John nods.  “EOS and I are just researching that now,” he says.  “The details are unclear.  Obviously it’s not something that Gaat wants anyone to know, so there isn’t much record of what it actually _means_ to trap someone in the sky’s reflection.  I mean, it took an obsessed scholar to even uncover that information—and it’s rumored that this specific information was added rather late.  I’ve looked in spell books from the across the world and it seems to have its roots in the Eastern Islands, but I think it might be patchwork.  I’m telling you—disgusting man, but powerful.  Very powerful.”

Virgil throws the blankets aside, finally awake.  “Let me help,” he says.  “I want to help—hand me a book.”

At these words, John looks up, snaps the book in his hand, and it’s almost as though  _he’s_ the one who has finally woken up.  “Oh, happy to,” he says.  He crosses the room, searches his piles, and scoops one up off the top.  It’s leather, like the rest, except this on is black, with intricate copper curls across the front.  Brows crease as he flips through the pages and lands on the one he wants.  “How about this one?”

It lands on it’s spine, pages flattened atop bedsheets to reveal a single, script word.  Virgil’s heart flattens and the beast claws even faster at his insides, desperate to get out—to get out and _run_.

Lycanthropy.

Virgil looks up at John, his older brother looking back down with crossed arms and an expectant expression.  There is no explanation, but rather a sheepish smile.  “Well,” he says.  “At least now you know that I wasn’t fighting.”

John nods, slow, and maybe Virgil’s mistaken, but there might just be some concern in his most apathetic brother.  “We find your sorceress,” John agrees.  “But _only_ if you promise to tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

Virgil’s laugh isn’t much more than a breath.  “We find my sorceress,” he says, “and I won’t have to.”


	25. The Guard at the Palace Gates

Alan is a liar, and something he’d learned early on is that liars are in bad company.  Liars barter with the men in the alley, the men in the ally have drinks with the thieves, the thieves are hired by the pirates, and the pirates are the worst of them all.  Alan is a liar, and with that comes the absolute guarantee of a no good future with a no good crowd.

Or so they all think.

Because the truth is that Alan is not a liar, he is merely perceived as such.  That which is spoken in truth is twisted up sometime after it leaves his lips, stretched and pulled into the lie that is heard.  Even his lies are lies, and it is for this reason that when he says, “I am a prince of Kingdom Melchior and I require a meeting with King Gaat,” the guards, of course, do not believe him.

This is not an unexpected response.  Alan’s been living with this handicap longer than not, so he anticipates disbelief far more than he anticipates the opposite.  Still.  It would have been nice—would have been _convenient—_ if Gaat had left at least one of his palace guards untouched by magic, but perhaps he cannot find genuine loyalty and simply waves his staff around instead.  

Alan’s tried to find it, that magical point in the air when his words no longer mean what he thinks they do.  He’s spent days, months, years trying to pinpoint it, as if it’s just another one of his stars and he need only map it, but he has had little success.  Magic, after all, is unscientific.  That’s the whole point.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _know_  his curse, because he does.  He most certainly does.  Maybe he doesn’t understand it, but he knows how to navigate it.  Man cannot understand how God made the mountains, but the mountains are conquered regardless.  

He knows how to scale the side of his curse.  He knows where to place his feet and knows which routes are best to climb.  Every fall has been another addition to the list of what _not_ to say, so it was only a matter of time before he started to figure out what worked.  These days Alan knows every nook, every cranny, every little twist and turn that crosses his path and he knows that there are ways in which liars have the definite advantage.

But Alan is not a liar.  Not really.  “I wish irreversible harm to your king,” he tells the guards.  “I have not made arrangements ahead of time, my presence will likely result in Gaat’s outright shock, and there is a good chance that I absolutely, positively, do not belong on the other side of those gates.”

The guards laugh again.  They always laugh.  Alan has stopped finding joy in that sound, loud and bitter, constantly echoing off blue skies.  Except there’s one guard who doesn’t laugh, and it’s only one guard Alan needs.  It only ever takes one.  

He locks eyes with the guard.  The two of them stand on opposite sides of the gate and Alan wonders how he can possibly bear to stand behind iron bars.  Then again, maybe the guard thinks the same about Alan.  Perspective, Alan’s learned, is absolutely key.

The others leave, no longer threatened by the tiny boy on the other side of their gate, but the one guard stays behind.  There’s strict consideration in the man’s eye, and just a little bit of hope in Alan’s, until finally the guard reaches for his key.  The scratch of metal across metal is like music to Alan’s ears and the squeal of the hinges sends his heart soaring.  “With me,” says the guard.

“Yes sir,” says Alan.

The guard eyes him carefully, taking one last moment to consider, but Alan’s already in the gate.  The job is done.  If there’s anything he’s learned over the years, it’s that sometimes, when a person is desperate enough, angry enough, tired enough, they feel the need to give the benefit of the doubt.

Sometimes, when a person doesn’t have any other options, it comes down to trusting the liar.


	26. The Papers of Lifelong Promise

Penelope has been attending council meetings ever since she was first able to understand the word _Princess._ Her father would string her along whenever he thought it was important for her to hear what was said—a thought which occurred to him more often than not.  Hours of discussion, the same issues arising day after day after day.  How to feed their people, provide work for their people, keep their people healthy.  How to soothe revolution, how to prevent revolution in the first place—betterment of the kingdom.  It is always about betterment of the kingdom.

Scott’s council meetings, he’s assured her, are no different.  A loaf of bread and honest work for all, day in and day out, except there _is_ a difference.  A fundamental difference.  A difference that feels overwhelmingly obvious to her, but a difference that Scott doesn’t seem to notice—doesn’t seem to think it significant to even mention before the two of them walk hand-in-hand into the council chamber.  

King Creighton-Ward has a council of men.  Prince Scott has a council of women.

It shouldn’t strike her this hard, except it does, because all her life Princess Penelope has watched men go into battle, has watched men debate the agricultural state of the western territories, has watched men sit on the throne.  Now she walks into a room with three women holding the three most powerful positions found in each kingdom.  “How nice of you to finally join us,” says the woman in the center.

If any of his councilmen were to talk to her father in such a manner, he would have their head.  Scott, however, only smiles.  “Apologies.  I was out in the garden finishing _your_ drills.”

“Had I known, all those years ago, that you’d use those drills as an excuse to be late to so many council meetings, I never would have given them to you.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all.”  He looks down at Penelope, as if he expects her to join in on the laughter, but she doesn’t understand the joke.  In this moment she is an outsider and it must show in her expression, because Scott clears his throat and takes control of the situation.  “Penelope.  This is Lady Casey, Grandmaster of Melchior’s military.  You probably know her name from all the stories my father used to tell.”

Penelope does not know this name, but the admiration in his voice makes it clear that Scott has heard her name his entire life. “Just beside her, you have my expert on agriculture and medicine, Professor Moffat, and then you’ve met the head of community relations.”

“ _Head of community relations_?” barks the woman closest to them.  “You’ll be married to this young lady by the day’s end and _that_ is how you say hello to your grandmother?”

As his grandmother stands, Scott laughs and let’s Penelope’s hand fall.  She wraps him in something that is closer to strangulation than affection, up on her tiptoes as if she still gets surprised by how much he’s grown.  “Sorry Grandma,” he says.

And then it’s Penelope’s turn to endure the hug.  Affectionate though it may be, pleasant it is not, so she doesn’t let it linger.  As she pulls away, however, she feels hands take hold of her arms, relentless in their grasp.  “How’s he treating you?” his grandmother asks.  “Has he been treating you well?”

Penelope looks up at Scott.  Smiles.  “He’s been lovely,” she says.  “Just absolutely lovely.”

Scott’s smile grows just a little bit wider.

“Okay, you three,” says Lady Casey.  “We all have a busy day ahead of us, so let’s get this done.“

Scott nods at the Lady, then takes Penelope’s hand and nods at her.  He’s got that look on his face again—that rigid nervousness that had come just before last night’s speech—and so she nods back, as reassuringly as she knows how.

As they all take their seats, it feels very much like three against two.  It is not the first time that Scott and Penelope have sat side-by-side, but it is the first time that she’s felt the weight of their royalty balancing between them.  She’s been preparing for the union of the kingdoms for years.  She’s been preparing to marry Scott for months.  Only just now, sitting across from her new council, does she truly realize that she will be marrying Scott to form that union.

She is marrying Scott.

Okay.

Until this very moment, she hadn’t realized that some part of her, minuscule, insignificant, hadn’t quite believed that it would happen.  Some small part of her had really thought that something would have intervened, that the union would have been formed through other means, that one day down the road when she finally _did_ marry, Scott wouldn’t be the one with whom she shared her vows.  She had really, truly, been hoping, but when the council slides a sheet of parchment in front of the pair of them, the last of that hope melts into the ink with which she is meant to sign her name.  

“Your father and his council have already signed,” Scott’s grandmother explains.  “They are the exact same terms which were agreed upon at the start of the arrangement, but now they’re written out and legally binding.  In addition to binding you into legal marriage, your signatures will also signify that you agreed to these terms.  As soon as you sign these papers, you will be married in the eyes of the kingdoms.  Then at sunset, you will be married in the eyes of the Gods.”

As she speaks, both Scott and Penelope read over the document, making sure that all is right.  When he finishes, he looks to her, and there’s another one of those nods.  She sees all of the long, sleepless nights finally catching up with him in that singular moment and so she lays her hand on his bouncing knee and gives him one more, solid nod.

Scott takes the quill first.  Fiddles with it.  Breathes.  His name bleeds onto parchment, thick black ink shining fresh against the flames that light the room, and then he hands it to her.  It is, literally, as light as a feather, and still it seems to pin her hand down.  To pin her whole body down.

And in a blink, the words _Penelope A. Creighton-Ward_  are curled across the page.

Lady Casey takes the papers.  “You may now kiss the bride.”

“Not yet,” says his grandmother.  

Scott and Penelope forget to laugh at the joke.  Scott simply looks across the table to the women he most respects and asks, “What’s next?”

“Nothing else,” says Lady Casey.  “You have wedding preparation to attend to.  I’ll bore you with the finer details of your military next week.”

There’s a pause, and then, “You mean tomorrow.”

She looks at him.  “No,” she says.  “Next week.  When you return to your duties.”

Lady Casey is a master of battle, so clearly she understands that lines have been drawn, right down the center of the table.  The air feels impossibly thicker, impossibly warmer, as one side clearly tries to determine whether or not the other is playing games.  “I don’t need a vacation just because I’ve been married,” he says, and when he looks to Penelope for backup, she agrees.  “The people don’t stop starving just because we’ve made our vows and as soon as this union is complete, we’re going to have a constant threat looming over us—”

“It’s not a vacation, Scott,” says his grandmother.

“Then what _is_ it?”

It is Lady Casey who answers, curt.  Honest.  Penelope could grow to like her.  “We are giving you an adequate amount of time to consummate the marriage,” she says.  “If you really want to do what’s best for your kingdom, you’ll produce offspring to secure your family’s reign.”

“Oh.”

In one simple word, Scott’s perfectly summed up exactly what she’s thinking.  The two of them freeze, very much avoiding the gaze of one another, because as much as they may have spoken about children, they have never directly discussed the individual steps which must be taken in order to travel along that path.  The thought that it is expected to happen, soon, within a specific timeline, seems to loop a rope around her neck and now she’s just waiting for someone to pull the lever.  

“No need to be shy about it,” says Lady Casey.  “If you want your family’s legacy to continue—and for the good of the kingdom, I must insist that it continues—then you will take this time to produce an heir.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Grandma cuts in, eyeing the two of them as if all her years have gifted her with a sight unknown by the young.  “Tracy boys are historically fertile with pure women—you are pure, are you not, Princess?”

And there’s the lever.

“I hardly think that’s an appropriate discussion for anyone aside from myself and my husband,” she says, but even she doesn’t buy it.  Every head in the room turns and under the burn of four separate gazes, Penelope realizes that the only correct answer to this question is _yes_.

But Penelope will not be made a liar.

His grandmother falls back in her chair, smile satisfied.  “Interesting.” 

“Grandma, please,” says Scott, but his eyes are still fixed on Penelope and she doesn’t meet him this time.  

“Of course,” says Grandma.  “I’ve crossed a line.  Penelope, dear.  I apologize.”

“Thank you.”

“With that, I think it’s best we adjourn, would you agree?”

“I’d like that very much.”

Penelope is the first one up, all the flame in the room concentrated on her skin as it burns red-hot.  Scott follows her lead, up too quickly, stealing glances at her to see what she’ll do next, but everything feels too close and all she wants to do is run away without anyone following.

“Oh and, Scott,” says Lady Casey, sparing  Penelope of the silence that eats at her pride.  “I’ve been asked to inform you that your brother hasn’t returned yet.”

Scott laughs, uncertain, like it’s a joke he doesn’t quite understand.  “Gordon returned home two days ago.”

“He took another trip,” says Lady Casey.  “Didn’t inform any of his secondary ships where he was going.”

It’s true, Penelope realizes.  What they say about wedding days.  Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and there’s really no way to plan for it.  She pulls her fingers to the headache forming at the bridge of her nose and her words come out as a hiss.  “That _stupid_ boy—he set sail for Kingdom Balthazar.”

And then, all at once, Penelope is no longer the most important thing in the room.  Amazingly, predictably, Gordon has managed to screw things up even worse than she has—although to be fair, it's screwing Gordon that's put her in this position to begin with, so it's partially his fault all around.  “How…?” begins Scott.  There’s a critical, strikingly silver edge to his voice, but Penelope still feels like she’s dangling from a rope and the whole world is three feet below her.  She doesn’t notice anything about Scott in that moment.  “How do you know that?”

“I heard him talking to my father about it,” she says.  “His ship—it has this vent that leads to his cabin and he always forgets to cover it up.  Sound leaks straight through.”

“How do you know _that_?”

“Everyone knows that.”  In fact, _not_ everyone knows that, but Penelope needs to leave.  She has to get out of this room, has to get out of this palace, has to get on a ship and sail away and never come back.  “Scott, darling.  I’ll see you at sunset.”

And before he even has a chance to answer, she’s gone.  “Penelope!”

He goes to chase after her, to help her stand just as she had helped him, but his grandmother’s grip really is unforgiving in just about every way, and she hooks him.  “Not so fast,” she says.  “Number one rule of marriage: sometimes a lady just needs her space.”

“But she’s—”

“Does she make you happy, Scott?”

And then Scott’s attention shifts from the doorway through which his bride just ran, to his grandmother, wise and wrinkled and smiling.  Always smiling.  “What?”

“The princess,” she says.  “Does she make you happy?”

It seems like a silly question.  “I…” Maybe a trick.  “I suppose so, yes.”

Grandma shakes her head, expression solemn.  “No,” she says.  “You _know_ when someone makes you happy.  You feel it in your gut.”

Scott grunts when she leaves a loving hit to his stomach, and all he can think about is the fact that his bride has just run away, but his grandmother has stopped him to say this.  They’re two events that don’t line up.  “Why are you telling me this?”

Grandma smiles again.  “Keep an eye out for the people who make your princess happy, Scott.”


	27. A King of Disregard Belief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: King Gaat is a manipulative dick who is aware of Alan’s condition and uses it to his advantage. This whole thing is super emotionally compromising, so please tread carefully.

A little boy walks in to a large room on an island at the side of the sea.  The floor at his feet is made up of dark, cracked jade and the sound of his stride echoes off the high, cathedral ceilings.  Silver white swirls of platinum twist and twine along the stately pillars that hold the massive room upright and instead of glass, the windows are made up of emerald.  Alan stops, as anyone would, when the awe strikes him.  He imagines that if ever the Gods needed an earthbound throne room, this would be their first choice.  

But instead, the man with the snake sits upon the throne.

His robes are as rich as the rest of his palace, shimmering with the shine of the stars, and his crown sits boldly atop his head.  His smile, however, is the wealthiest thing about him.  “King Gaat.”

The king’s serpent slicks its way over his shoulders, revealing the glow of the green scepter.  Just the sight of it seems to scrunch all of the weight from Alan’s curse into a single, dense ball that sits at the bottom of his stomach.  “A little birdie told me that a prince would be visiting me today,” says Gaat.  “But I must admit, I did think it would be the older one.”

They’re _all_ the older one, but Alan doesn’t say so.  

“It is a big day for your kingdom,” says the king.  “I was just about to make my way across the sea—don’t want to be late.”

“I wasn’t aware you were invited,” says Alan, dry.  Humorless. “I came to talk to you about the stars—nine of them, specifically, having fallen from the sky.”

“Ahh, I suppose I should have known,” he says.  “They call you the Starlight Prince, do they not?”

The words send a twist through Alan’s chest, but he holds his chin up high.  Doesn’t let it show.  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.  You’re thinking of John, the second born, but he hasn’t mapped a star in years.”

Gaat is not mistaken.  That much is absolutely clear.  He slithers through his sentences, entirely aware of all he says, and waits for an opportunity to strike.  “Oh, that’s right.”  Maybe Alan is imagining it, but Gaat’s _S_ s sound like a hiss.  “He was forced to retire from that position.  I do recall hearing about that—so sad, to see such a young boy overcome with grief.  Sticking himself in that library.  Such a waste, for such a brilliant prince to turn mad.”

Alan knows the rumors. He knows what the townspeople think, knows about the stories they’ve been told in order to justify the absence of their second prince.  But he also knows the truth and he’s fairly sure that Gaat does too, because the man’s smile grows sickeningly wider.  “Of course, not as mad as the youngest prince”—he snaps his fingers in faux revelation—“the Teatime Prince.   _That’s_ what they call you.”

It’s the kind of phrase that sends a chill down Alan’s spine.  It’s the kind of phrase that slaps icy shackles along his wrists, wraps chains around his neck, force feeds every last memory he wants to forget straight down his throat until it’s hard to swallow.

Alan doesn’t respond—can’t.  Can’t respond.  

A little boy stands at the center of a throne room that is not his own.  A king, who is neither father nor brother, looks down on him and smiles.  “I trust you didn’t come all this way to chat.”

“Trust is an interesting choice,” Alan replies.

“Out with it, young man.”

“I have an offer for you.”

The word _offer_  is like a magic all its own, gripping Gaat’s attention and pulling him to the edge of his seat.  “An offer?” he says, doubtful.  Everyone is always so doubtful where Alan is involved.  “And does the prince-regent know about this _offer_?”

“If you truly believe that the prince-regent even knows I’m here, then you aren’t as clever a man as I thought, Your Majesty.”

“A brown nose doesn’t suit you, young prince,” says Gaat.  “What is this offer you claim to have?”

“I’m told that you’re the man who cursed my brother,” Alan says, and before Gaat can protest—before he _dares_  to deny it—Alan stops him.  “Until there are no more stars in the sky.  Until the moon no longer lights the sea.  Does that sound familiar?”

Gaat knows better than to compromise himself in such a way.  Fine.  Alan continues.  “And I believe that this curse has extended onto me.”

“You _believe_ that, do you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”  Alan’s jaw is set, purpose pulsing through him, because he has far more important things to consider than whether or not his own beliefs are even believable to the people around him.  “My understanding is that you’re the man to talk to about lifting the curse.”

And this—this is the reason that Alan lives in the night.  This is the reason he hides away in bedrooms and astronomy towers and palace rooftops.  He’s forced to choose his words so carefully, forced to change the things he _wants_ to say into the things he can _get away_  with.  Sunlight shines through emerald windows, leaving a spark in his eye, and Alan remembers why he sleeps when others wake.

God, he’s so tired.

“And what’s in it for me?” asks Gaat, serpent slithering down his arm, around his throne, onto jade tile.  Alan is suddenly acutely aware of every movement the snake makes.  “What happens if I do assist you with this curse?”

These are the words Alan’s been waiting for—the doorway into negotiation.  He cannot speak as well as Scott, cannot write as well as Gordon, but the difference between he and his brothers is that he has nothing to lose.  He looks Gaat straight in his serpentine eyes and says, “Nothing.”

He is counting on the fact that Gaat doesn’t believe him, banking on the fact that no one has believed Alan his entire life, and that Gaat won’t be any different.  He is hoping—desperately hoping—that the _nothing_ twists its way through the air and becomes  _everything_ and, more than that, he’s hoping that Gaat really is the sort of man who wants everything.  “I have nothing to offer you, Your Majesty.”

The king studies the little boy before him.  Alan’s heart races, waiting for the meaning to land, until finally Gaat smiles at him once more.  “There is one small problem with your negotiation,” he says, sitting back against his throne.  “I believe you.”

The words don’t seem right—don’t seem like they fit together.  Stained glass shines down on a stained boy and Alan briefly considers the fact that not even his own father had believed him, so naturally Gaat shouldn’t either.  Alan is cursed.  No one believes Alan.  If it turns out that even that isn’t true, then Alan isn’t sure what he believes anymore.

This is not what was supposed to happen.  This is not how Alan’s world works.

Gaat’s snake crawls up his scepter and then Gaat himself stands from his throne, descending the steps so that he and Alan are on equal footing.  Gaat is still taller.  Nearly everyone is taller than Alan.  “Do you really think that this curse—this curse you _claim_ exists.  Do you honestly believe that I would place it upon myself?  That I would give a young prince of an opposing kingdom that kind of power over me?”

Alan hates the way he says it.  The curse he _claims_ exists.  The curse is not merely a claim, it is fact.  It is why John cannot leave the library, why Gordon cannot leave his ship.  The curse is _real_.  It has to be.  

Unless, maybe, John and Gordon aren’t real to begin with.

But that’s just not true.  It’s not, because Gordon, at least, is the only thing that Alan knows _must_ be real.  Gordon has come home with stories that Alan couldn’t even dream, Gordon leads an entire crew of real, honest men, Gordon _trusts_ people he doesn’t believe, which is something that Alan can’t even comprehend.  Gordon is real.  He has to be, because there’s no way Alan possibly could have dreamed him up.

“For years they have called you mad, young prince,” Gaat continues.  “Maybe it is time to consider the fact that you are not a reliable informant when it comes to your own mind.”

“ _Don’t_.”

The word doesn’t echo.  Doesn’t even reach the walls.  It’s low and raw and dangerous, completely without any reign.  Gaat should be scared.  He should be terrified.  But he merely smiles.  “You came into my palace.  You tried to play games with me, and you lost, and now you aren’t even sure which way is up.”

Alan wants to tell him that he’s wrong.  That nothing has changed.  Except Gaat’s windows are green, and Alan begins to wonder if the sky was ever blue in the first place.  

But of course the sky is blue.  Of course it is, because Gordon sees it too.

“I believe you,” Gaat tells him, face to face, toe to toe, the two of them frozen in a time that Alan isn’t sure of.  “I believe that you have nothing to offer me.  You do not even have anything to offer yourself.”

The sky is blue, the sky is blue, the sky is blue.  Never in his life has he been more certain.  Alan locks on to his chant, knowing that every plan he’s made, every hope he’s had, every curseless dream he’s yearned for is now completely, utterly, obsolete.

A little boy, banging around somewhere inside of Alan’s head, finally crumbles under the weight of fallen hopes.  Gaat is not the man Alan had wanted him to be, and what a fool the king must be, to turn away such high beliefs.

“It is time you face the fact that your brothers will not say—”

“Stop it.”

“You are—”

“You’re wrong.”

“—out of your mind—”

“You’re _wrong_.”

“—out of control—”

“ _Stop it_.”

“—mad as a hatter in the afternoon sun, Melchior’s own  _Teatime Prince.”_

A young man boils with fury unrelenting at the center of a throne room that isn’t his.  White knuckles and red cheeks, leading up to the point when a prince lands a punch, square in the nose of a king.

Gaat stumbles backwards, and the snake hisses at Alan, uncurling, unwinding, ready for the attack, and Alan doesn’t need another warning.  He takes off before Gaat can even call to his guards, jetting through the extravagant room before anyone can realize that Melchior has just, essentially, started a war.

If he stays here, he will be hanged.

If he runs back to Gordon, they will both be hanged.

He is out of options, and so he smiles, because he knows exactly where he needs to go next.  “Rot in _Hell_ , Gaat!” he screams through a laugh.

He is gone before the guards can catch him, gone before the city can turn him in.  Gaat stands at the center of his throne room, no one at his side except for his guards.  “We’ll hunt the seas for him, Your Majesty,” says one.

Gaat holds his hand up to his men, and not a single one dares to speak any further.  “No,” he says.  “I have a wedding to attend.”

The hood shines as he pulls it over his head, scepter still glowing green against dark cloaks.  He laughs, dark, low, as humored as any one man can be, as the hood dissolves into stardust and takes King Gaat along with it.


	28. The Sword of Lover's Star

“Back for your treasure, I see.”

Alan sprints back through the cave, his wonder and bemusement now lost among chaos and adrenaline.  His strides are long, his breaths quick, and he slows only when he reaches the edge of Trinity’s cliffs.  “Yeah, see,” he says between broken huffs.  “I don’t really have time for riddles right now.  I just punched a king in the face.  Actually I probably just started a war so if we could just—”

“When the question is one of started wars, the answer is definite, not probable.”

“Oh,” says Alan.  “Well.  That’s good to know, I guess.”

“Your treasure awaits you.”

There are times, Alan knows, that are appropriate for groaning, griping, and otherwise screaming into the vast abyss.  Such actions seem wholly _in_ appropriate while in the presence of a massive, fire-breathing dragon and yet, Alan simply cannot help himself.  His insides are buzzing and his head is spinning and his only hope of getting off this island—short of a very long swim—won’t stop talking about a treasure he has no interest in.  “I don’t _want_ any treasure.  It’s not mine, now can we please focus on—?”

“The treasure is yours,” says Trinity, so simply.  “You must be meant to take it, otherwise you would not be the one who does.”

“What does that even _mean_?”  He looks over his shoulder, sure that he’s heard footsteps, but it must have been his own echo.  “And don’t I have to die first or something?”

Trinity rises, silver-gold eyes staring straight through him.  “You are no longer the boy who stood before me earlier in your human _day_.”

The word _day_ sounds like a curse all it’s own, as if Trinity cannot imagine why any being would ever measure such a minuscule amount of time.  Or why they would measure time at all.  For Alan, however, time is a very sensitive subject. “Fine— _fine._ If I take this treasure will you help me?”

“Your singular soul lacks understanding,” replies Trinity.  “You will take the treasure and I will also help you.  There is no correlation, only a fact of—”

“Where is it?” says Alan.  “The treasure.  Where is it?“

“Just beyond the ledge.”

“The ledge?  What ledge?” He searches the cave from top to bottom, eyes glazing across the golden flames and glow worms until, finally, he looks at his own two feet and realizes.  With a finger pointed down at the ground, he forms a doubtful question.  “You mean… _this_ ledge?”

The dragon returns to its rest.  Right.  Suddenly the riddles are gone.  How _convenient_.

Alan looks down at his feet once more, kicks a stone over the edge and listens for the eventual splash.  It takes longer than he expects it to, but so far today he’s faced a storming whirlpool, followed a rabbit into a dragon’s den, and decked the most infamous king in the three kingdoms.  Jumping from a cliff will not be his most outrageous adventure of the day and so, he takes a few steps back, then he takes a few strides forward, and before he knows it, he’s flying.   _God_ , does it feel good to fly.

And then, less fun, he’s falling—falling through a sky of stars that aren’t his, stars he doesn’t know, stars that no one has ever once tried to map.  His heart leaps as he recalls his promise to Gordon, his promise to live and to finally, _finally_ live well.  Air rushes past his clothes, over his ears, through his hair and he wonders, somewhere between the top of the cliffs and the bottom, if living well really just means risking death. For a second time in that cave, he lets out a scream.

He’s silenced by the splash of water and the chill of sunless seas.  It strikes him in his chest, wide and dense, freezing him straight to the bone.  He yearns for the warmth of the fire above, vows that he’ll never jump into water again for as long as he lives, except as he claws towards the surface, the shine of silver catches his eye.

Far below, wedged between rock and sand, is a sword, spotted with red rubies.  He doesn’t have time to consider, has to go on instinct, and so he swims towards it.  His fingers feel like icicles, his lips stained blue, and he grabs ahold of it before he can float back up to the surface.  

He pulls once.  The sword does not move.

He pulls twice.  The sword still does not move.

He pulls a third time, using his final breath, and this time the sword gives.  It’s heavier than he expects and it weighs him down.  His skin is frosted in a layer of ice, but his chest burns with a damning need for air.  Furious kicks are his only way up to the surface and he fears, for the slightest second, that the underside of Trinity’s waves are the last things he may ever see, illuminated by that spotty, green-blue glow.

But then he can breathe again.  Water runs down his face, his front, his spine, biting at his skin.  His shirt turns sheer in the sea’s grip as it pulls him back down.  The entire world feels heavy, his own footsteps splashing around his knees, his calves, and finally his ankles as he trudges upon the shore and lets tip of the sword clink and scratch the earth below.

A sword.

Alan’s never been allowed to carry a sword of his own.  Only those who are trusted may carry swords, and Alan has the distinct disadvantage of lacking such trust.  The last time he can remember even gripping a sword’s handle, it was his father’s sword, and he was a fair bit smaller than he is now.

He feels the same sort of energy now that he had all those years ago.  Suddenly it feels  _right_ , standing in this cave, questioning this dragon, holding this very sword in his hands.  As if all the stars have aligned.

The silver shines in his palm as he tries to place what it is about _this_ sword that makes it feel so honest, but before he can even take a guess, the earth crumbles overhead.  Alan takes cover on instinct, looking up to see Trinity, pounding through the top of the cave, rock after rock falling into the water below with a hollow _splunk_.  

Alan’s eyes burn as sunlight breaks through.  “What are you _doing_?” he asks the dragon.

“Come, Prince,” says Trinity.  “For now we must fly across the sea.”

Alan is in no position to argue.  A trip across the sea—a _fast_ trip across the sea, so that he may warn his brothers—is his one and only priority at the moment, and so he nods and takes off through the water.

Except.

“Stop!”

The voice is neither Trinity’s nor his own.  “Is that the sword of the lover’s star?”

Alan turns, looking for the source.  His heart bangs against his ears and tightens in his chest as he wonders whether or not Gaat’s guards have finally found him.  “Who are you?” he needs to know.

“You have to tell me if that is the sword of the lover’s star,” says the voice again.

Water crawls up his legs and when he looks down, he sees her.  Trapped in the reflection of a blue sky above, a woman with dark skin and dark hair.

And dark green eyes.

“It’s you,” says Alan.  “From the whirlpool.”

“The _sword_ ,” the woman insists.

“Great idea,” he says, pointing the tip of his sword at her.  It’s clumsy and untrained and altogether unintimidating, which shows in the woman’s face, but Alan doesn’t drop his weapon.  “I saw you in the storm, who are you?”

“Listen to me,” she says.  “You must let me out.”

“Why?”

She rolls her eyes, as if she too, does not have the time.  “ _Trust me_.”  These are two very powerful words for the youngest prince of Melchior.  “If that is the sword I think it is, then it will slice through the sky’s reflection and set me free.   _Please_.   I’ve been trapped for so many years and you are my only hope.”

And maybe it’s because Alan knows what it feels like to be trapped and chained into nonexistence.  Maybe all these years of not being believed has caused him to believe everyone he meets.  Maybe, even, he’s just a little bit of a sucker, but nevertheless, Alan takes his sword and slices through the sky’s reflection.

Sure enough, the reflection splits, and the young woman emerges from under the water’s surface.  She catches her breath, not unlike Alan, but before he even has time to process what he’s just witnessed, she grabs his wrist and yells, “We have to leave.   _Now_.”

She drags him along, through the water, up Trinity’s tail, and all the way across the dragon’s back.  He’s shoved, with an unexpected amount of force, into a crevice along Trinity’s largest scales and then the woman—this mysterious green-eyed woman—wraps her arms around his waist and holds on tight.  “Go, dragon!  Go!”

Trinity’s wings are impossibly strong, sending wind cycling through that cave one massive flap at a time until, finally, they _go._

It is the third scream that Alan leaves behind in that cave.


	29. A Palm of Stolen Stars

“It is said that in his younger days, the knight once wished upon a star—wished that the love he felt in his heart could be true to the world,” reads John, thumbing though the book for what must be the third time since dawn.  “And when that didn’t work, he searched for the dragon that his father had once told him about.”

“Grandpa met a dragon?” asks Virgil.

“Maybe,” says John.  “Unimportant.  Listen: the knight apparently _found_ the dragon, and he asked what wisdom could be shared—what he needed to do in order to win the heart of the princess.  The dragon sent him on a quest and told him to pull the star from the sky.”

“Did he?”

“It’s Dad, of course he did.”  John turns the page.  “The dragon then forged the star into a sword, telling the knight that it was the most powerful sword that had ever and would ever exist throughout the three kingdoms, and that if he truly wished for the princess’ heart, then he must toss it aside and never look back.  The knight, of course, didn’t think twice, and the dragon told him that he already possessed all the wisdom he needed.”

“I remember this story,” says Virgil.  “I always thought it was made up.”

“Me too,” admits John.  “The sword cut straight from the sky—I thought it was just something he would tell us to make us go to sleep.”

Virgil turns through his own book, searching for something, anything that helps put the pieces together.  “You don’t think that a sword of the sky could—?”

“Cut through the sky’s reflection?” John suggests.  “That’s exactly what I think, but I don’t know every part of the story.  I don’t know where this sword ended up or how it works or, really, if it’s even real.  I mean, how did he pull a star out of the sky?  Realistically.”

“He spoke with me.”

Books snap shut and both boys startle.  That voice is not Virgil’s.  Neither John nor Virgil has ever heard that voice before in their life, but based on all the stories they’ve heard, all the rumors they’ve caught, and the fear that arises with the name _Gaat_ , that tall, slimy voice could only belong to one person.  “Your father’s request for his star is the reason your mother’s—mmm… let’s call it _purity—_ evencame to my attention in the first place.”

His hood hangs over his eyes, shadowing all but his smile.  There is a staff in one hand, ensnared by a hissing serpent, and in the other, Gaat seems to balance a small galaxy.  A handful of stars, each one spinning and toppling over the other as they try to balance out an irregular orbit.  They are the first stars John’s seen since he was a little boy and he can’t help but feel entranced.

“I pulled his star from the sky,” says Gaat.  “And in exchange, he gave me information about the princess.”

These words, finally, grip John back into a cold reality.  “He never would have told you about her,” he says, not out of spite, but more out of correction.  There is a flaw in Gaat’s story, and John intends to buff it out until everything is crystal clear and sensical.  “He loved her.”

“And love makes for the easiest of targets,” Gaat says.  “Your father would go on and on about the princess if a person would listen.  I was merely someone who didn’t stop him from talking.”

Gaat’s fingers twist and twirl through a sky that fits in his palm.  It’s astounding, being in the presence of a real, true sorcerer because all John wants to do is figure out how it  _works_.  All he’s ever wanted to do was figure out how Gaat’s magic works.

Because it’s Gaat’s magic which has confined him to this _damn_ library.

It’s a hot, furious blink of black before John’s fully aware of anything again.  For one fleeting moment he transcends his curse and escapes into a world of blazing, liberating anger.  It’s not until he sees white fistfuls of Gaat’s shimmering cloak—not until the hood falls back to reveal a king, smiling at him through tired breaths and a crusted, bloodied nose—that John realizes he’s even lost his temper.  That he’s shoved an opposing king into a bookshelf that towers over both of them.  “Two in one day,” Gaat mutters.  “You Tracy boys are itching for a fight.”

A pair of strong arms wrap around John’s torso and rips him away from the king.  “Are you out of your mind?” hisses Virgil.

“I went out of my mind years ago,” John tells him.  He tries to pull himself out of Virgil’s grasp, but Virgil knows better, and so John settles for yelling.  “ _How_ did you get a star?  How does it work _—_ tell me how it _works_.”

“I was not expecting _you_ to be the rabid one, boy,” says Gaat, standing himself back upright.  John can’t tear his eyes way from those stars.  “As for the stars, it’s really quite simple.  When you hold the sky up, you get to choose which parts come down.”

“Your metaphors _suck_ ,” John spits, venomous.

“It’s not a metaphor, you foolish prince,” says Gaat.  “You seem to have done your research, so tell me.  Did you think that my family just _waltzed_ upon an oracle stone?  That we found it in the forest one day, among the mint and the mushrooms?  We paid a steep price for that gem, and it is a debt so large that it sits on the shoulders of each generation.”

“You’re not making any _sense_.”

“Then let me clear it up for you,” says Gaat, and finally he juggles the stars, tossing them up into the air and letting them fall in on themselves.  The first one lands, and Virgil shifts.  On the second, Virgil shifts again and on the third, he lets go of John altogether.  “Long ago, my great-great- _great_ -grandfather wanted an oracle stone, but as you well know, they were classified as a danger to society and were rapidly destroyed.  The Gaats decided they would barter for one before they vanished completely, but there is a price in every exchange.”

Four, five, six stars pop into place and John hardly even hears Gaat anymore.  His attention slides to Virgil as he scratches and strains against himself, nearly _growling_.  “The price of this particular exchange,” Gaat continues, “was a curse—it’s always a curse.  Since that day, the Gaat family has been weighted with a great responsibility: to hold the sky up, or else watch it fall.”

Seven stars.  Eight stars.  Vigil falls to his knees, then to his hands.  His spine cracks and John can’t tell whether he wants to reach out to his brother or run away.  “It’s exhausting, really,” says Gaat.  “But it has its perks.”

Nine stars.  Nine stars have found their place in Gaat’s hand, and even though it’s been years, John could never forget.  Lupus, a constellation he once shared with his mother, with his kid brother, now rests in the palm of a man who has only ever _destroyed_ John’s family.  

And when John turns around, there’s a wolf where Virgil once was.

“What did you do to him?” he asks, backing, backing, backing away.  Virgil’s fur is grey, but his eyes are the night’s black and his teeth are the snow’s white.  “What did you—?”

“It’s amazing what will happen,” says Gaat, “when you curse a star or two.  It’s amazing the sort of people you can hold in the palm of your hand.”

Gaat throws the stars in the air, sending the little wolf running around John’s library.  As the constellation sprints, so too does Virgil, out of John’s library and who knows where else?  “The towns people will kill him far more effectively than I could.  Assuming he doesn’t kill them first.”

“What are you—?”

“The prophesy states that I will take all three kingdoms on the day of a grand wedding,” says Gaat.  “And I can hear the church bells ringing.  The youngest one was declared unfit to rule years ago and after I’m done with the other two, they will have killed each other by sunset.  That leaves you.  The Starlight Prince, far too clever for your own good.  Best I just kill you myself.”

There’s the barest hint of a response from John, but he’s interrupted by a strike across the face.  He hears a crack, feels the throbbing as his cheek meets an instant swell.  Everything feels warmer, warmer, hot, until he finally gains control of his senses again and realizes that he’s been struck straight to the ground, the imprint of Gaat’s silver serpent ring emblazoned across his skin.  He tries to get back up, but the end of Gaat’s scepter pins him by his chest and suddenly it feels like if he breathes, he’ll burst.

Gaat’s serpent spirals down to John’s chest, slithers up past his collarbone, wraps its way around his throat.  John fights as best he can, but Gaat keeps his hands pinned underfoot and the snake coils around the neck of a boy who’s desperate for air.  “This will be far easier for both of us if you just let it happen,” says Gaat.

And John doesn’t have much choice, because now he really can’t breathe and the room he knows so well is growing darker and darker.  All he can do is lay there, watching as Gaat leaves fingerprints along _his_ shelves, flips the pages of _his_ books, blows the dust from _his_ mantle place, and pulls _his_ crown—John Tracy’s crown—to place upon his own head.  “Let us see what kind of trouble I can get your brothers into, shall we?” he asks.

And despite it all, despite the fact that he’s drowning in the same stale air he’s been breathing for years, he manages two strained words.  “Stay.  Away.”

Gaat only laughs, and it’s startlingly appropriate for his character.  “Oh, one last thing—one of you ought to know before your legacy ends.  I was saving this for the youngest, but since he is apparently incapable of keeping his hands to himself, you’ll have to do.”

He leans in close, the gold in John’s crown filled with the reflection of John’s fireplace.  In one, last attempt to stab John before he goes, Gaat whispers the words, “I killed your mother.”  His smile is slip.  “It was my poison which turned her ill, for all seven moons until her dying breath.”

When Gaat leaves, he leaves behind a serpent and an air of satisfaction—and John?  Well.  In that dark, damning library, with his dark, damning fate staring him straight in the eye, John smiles.  He smiles wider than he ever has before.


	30. The Man on the Dragon's Back

He hears them before he sees them, that magnificent sound of an approaching breeze, but when he _does_ see them it’s the kind of sight that sends him breathless.  It starts with the rustle of branches, the tops of trees waving in the wind until, in one steady swoop, a blazingly crimson monster appears in the sunny blue sky.

Gordon staggers backwards, his hands drawn through his hair.  First the storm and now this—clearly someone, somewhere, is determined to make this the very worst day of his life.  “Oh what the hell is this,” he spits.

But then the dragon loops and as it grows closer, Gordon can her a familiar voice, louder than he’s ever heard it before.  It’s a golden, triumphant hoot that dissolves into limitless laughter.  It sparks through the air, spreading like fire in a dry forest, and the warmth bubbles up in Gordon’s core until he just can’t help but join in.  “Parker, is that who I think it is?”

At his right hand—constantly at his right hand—Parker answers.  “Aye, Captain.  I do believe it is.”

The laughter grows nearer and nearer until finally the wind reaches Gordon’s deck and sends waves lapping against his ship.  “Gordon!” Alan calls from the back of a scaled beast.  He remembers hearing stories about dragons, but not once in all his travels has he ever come across one.  “Gordon.  Look.”  The kid’s practically choking on his own glee.  “Notice anything different about me?”

“Gee, I dunno, Al,” says Gordon.  “Did you get a haircut or som—?”

“I’m riding a _fucking_ dragon, Gordon,” he screams, his very words shaking with the same high that sends the rest of him into giddy tremors.  “A _dragon_.”

“No, yeah, I see that,” Gordon says.  His own smile is wide and just like that, all of the risk, all of the danger, suddenly feels worth the payoff.  “Who’s your friend?”

He holds out a hand to one of the scales, pets it like he used to pet the old tabby cats around the palace.  Alan’s always had a gift for picking up strays.  “This is Trinity,” he says.  “A dragon.  Like, a _real dragon_.”

Gordon laughs, then clears his throat.  “I, um.  I meant your _other_ friend, Alan.”

He looks confused at first, but then he seems to realize that he does, in fact, have a woman wrapped around his waist.  “Oh! Well, that is actually a great question.” He turns to her.  “Who are you?”

The question seems to catch her off guard, as if not even she knows the answer.  “Oh,” she says.  “It’s, uh, Kayo.  My name is Kayo.”

Alan nods, enough of an answer for him, and turns back to Gordon.  “She says her name is Kayo,” he tells his brother.

Gordon’s head falls into his hand as he mutters something only his first mate can hear.  “Christ, this kid is gonna kill me—who _is_ she, Alan?”

Alan shrugs.  “I dunno.  I cut her out of some water and she told me to go, so I went.”

“You did what?”

In the midst of a gutsy burst of brash bravery, Alan decides he is going to stand, but quickly changes his mind once he wobbles and realizes just how high up he is.  “Hey, listen,” he says, completely oblivious to anything except the thoughts racing through his hyped-up head.  “I don’t really have time to explain right now—I’ve got to get back and warn Scott that Gaat’s on his way because, well, I _kind of_ might have punched him in the face so—”

And then it’s both Kayo and Gordon.  “You did  _what_?”

“Whoo! Ten years from now, we’re all going to find this _really_ funny,” says Alan.

“If you’re not all dead first,” mutters Kayo.

“ _So_ funny,” says Alan. “But for now, I’ve got to go.  Probably you should go too.  Call in the calvary or whatever—oh and hey, can you take”—he turns to her—”Kayo?”  She nods.  “Kayo.  Can you take her… um… well, wherever she wants to go, I guess.”

“Why can’t you take her?” Gordon asks him.

Alan clears his throat, dramatically, purposefully.  He’s suddenly so much calmer than before as he says, with great state,  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time.”  And then, class abandoned, “ _I’m literally flying on the back of a dragon right now_.”

Huh.

“No, yeah, okay.  That’s fair,” says Gordon.  “Um, miss?  Do you need a ride?”

Trinity’s tail curls around to reach Gordon’s ship and Kayo slides down.  Gordon grabs her before her momentum can take over and throw her straight on her face.  “Easy there,” he says.  “You got it?”

“Thank you,” she tells him, and up close he can see that she’s just as on edge as Alan, although it’s not _quite_ the same.  “I’m trying to get to Melchior.”

“I think we can swing that,” Gordon tells her.  “Apparently that’s where everyone’s headed today.  Didn’t think King Gaat was invited, but if he’s on his way—”

“I promise you, he was neither invited, nor is he on his way,” Kayo tells him.

“What?”

“If Gaat wants to be in Melchior, then he’s already there.”

Gordon doesn’t ask questions anymore.  He doesn’t look for explanations and he doesn’t push.  Exploration and curiosity are reserved for the sea, but people?  People don’t need to be explored.  People need to be trusted.  

“Alan.  Get home. Warn Scott—and Parker.”  His first mate is there.  His first mate is always there.  “We’re going home.   _Now_.”


	31. A Matter of Mindless Hearts

It is an undeniable fact about Prince Gordon, be it a character flaw or a character strength, that his mind is about three steps behind his heart.  He speaks before he thinks, acts without debate, and sings when he doesn’t know who’s listening.  More than once he has incurred broken bones and bruises on behalf of an act he’s unjustly found noble.  There have been entire summers dedicated to great, grand projects which, in the end, were not altogether worth such time and effort.  He’s been known to spend hours in the sea until the sun eventually burned him and he has, on occasion, acted rather impulsively in the presence of a certain princess from across the sea.

Gordon’s heart is louder than his mind.  It always has been.

And he knows—or rather, he’s _learned—_ what kind of trouble this can lead to.  He knows that, in the end, it is better to be clever like John than to love as strongly as he does and he knows that a heart like his can sometimes be the most dangerous thing the sea has to offer.  

He knows, realistically, that picking up a mysterious young woman from Balthazar and providing her safe passage to Melchior without any question _might_ just be one of those things he comes to regret later on.

Except she doesn’t _look_ like a threat—and maybe the best threats are the ones that don’t look it, but the thing about Gordon’s heart is that it’s usually right, and his heart’s telling him that this girl isn’t someone he needs to worry about.  She’s hardly said a word since she stepped aboard and she’s squeezed herself into a corner of the deck where cabin meets guardrail, leaning against wood as she looks out upon the sea.  She’s a tiny thing, doesn’t take up much room, and Gordon forgets not to pity her.  “S’everything okay, miss?”

He doesn’t mean to startle her—really, he doesn’t—but even still, she jumps.  And see, that’s the thing that makes him think he may be wrong about her, because she’s had that strange, nervous energy since she slid down the dragon’s tail.  “It’s great,” she says.  “This is great—thank you, by the way.”

Gordon shrugs her thanks away.  “Not a problem,” he says, as he too lets himself lean across the ship’s edge.  “This crew has been taking passengers back and forth for days now.  You’re just one among hundreds of wedding guests.”

“Wedding?” she says, and there’s that edge again.  “In Melchior?”

These words have always weighed particularly heavily on his heart.  “Between the prince-regent and the princess of Kingdom Caspar,” he confirms.

“You certainly don’t sound too pleased about it.”

“It’s a long story.”

“A _story_ ,” she sighs.  Her eyes drift back to the sea, wind-blown strands of dark hair across a stark expression.  “It’s been so long since anyone has told me a story.”

Gordon watches her now and wonders, not for the first time, not for the last, exactly where this woman has come from.  Only after he realizes how obviously he is staring does he turn his gaze back to the sea.  “Well I’d hate for this one to be the first you hear, then,” he says.  “It’s a long way away from Happily Ever After.”

And now it’s her turn to eye him.  “Is the princess unfit to rule your kingdom?”

“What?” he says.  “No—oh no.  She’s… no.  She’s more than capable.”

“Then is she not beautiful?”

“God, no.  She’s the most beautiful woman in all the three kingdoms—no offense.  I just… no.  She’s absolutely stunning.”

“So how long have you been in love with her, then?”

His attention snaps onto her, because she simply _must_ be magical to know a secret kept so close to his heart.  Maybe she can see inside of him, or maybe she can read his mind.  “It’s, um,” he begins.  “A long time.  A very long time.  It feels so much longer than it actually is.”

She nods, the faintest hint of a smile cutting at the corners of her lips.  “How do you know her?”

He’s aware, vaguely, that he’s admitting to something that he’s vowed to keep secret, but somehow it doesn’t seem like it much matters.  Out here, on his ship and speaking to a woman who hasn’t said very much at all, it feels almost safe.  And maybe when his mind finally catches up with his heart’s actions, he’ll come to understand that he was stupid or arrogant or prideful, but his heart has been screaming this story for months now.  It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself that his mind will never catch up when it comes to Penelope.  “She’s always been there,” he says.  “But I was too stupid a kid to really see her.  Until she didn’t want to be seen, of _course_.  Then I saw her without a problem.”

“Didn’t want to be seen?” prompts Kayo.

And he doesn’t even notice—doesn’t even register the fact that he’s saying anything out loud.  It’s just a memory, bringing forth this smile he can’t stop and spinning words unlike anything he’s ever known.  “We talked a little bit when we were younger, but it was mostly prince and princess stuff.  Greetings and dances and horrifically boring dinners.  I think she kind of thought I was a kid until… well.  Until I wasn’t a kid anymore—but really, what was I supposed to do?  She was crying.”

Kayo takes his hand, drawing him back into a reality in which he wasn’t expecting her to even take a step closer to him, much less reach out and touch him.  Except, as she does, he hears the trickle of water, the splash of waves, and he looks out to see one of his favorite memories, grown straight from the sea.

Water crawls against gravity, twisting and turning until, finally, it forms a perfectly clear, perfectly scale replica of the tree that John and Penelope used to climb as kids. Tiny branches blow in the wind, too sparse with leaves as that distant summer ends, and at the center of it all, he sees a girl made up of water droplets, sitting in exactly the same spot Penelope used to sit.  “Whoa,” he says.  “Neat trick.”

“Is that the princess?” asks Kayo.

Gordon nods, and for a moment he gets lost in the memory.  Eyes lock on the little water Penelope, curled up within the split of the trunk, shoulders shaking as she cries, unreservedly, about the night she’s had.  For the first time, Gordon wonders how long she had been crying before he got there.  “Unbeknownst to me, my brother had just tried to kill himself—they’re good friends, John and Penelope.  Inseparable since the first day she set foot on the island, but then he”—he glances at Kayo, suddenly aware that she is technically a stranger—“fell victim to a spout of grief.  Shut himself up in his library and couldn’t leave, no matter what.”

“He was cursed,” Kayo corrects.  “Damned to live life in a trap.”

And then there’s another one of those looks from Gordon, certain that he’s absolutely  _un_ certain about who this woman is.  “Yes,” he admits.  “Cursed, by my oldest brother, actually.  The crown prince.  John was in that library for a long time, and I guess he got sick of it.  Not that anyone told me—or _would_ have told me, if not for Penelope.  She was the one who delivered the news and it was mostly because… well.  She was real torn up about it.  I think she just needed to talk to someone and I was the only person around.  I’ve never seen her cry outside of that day, but…”

His eyes find the little water Penelope again, and he watches her.  Watches as she pounds her palms into her forehead, as she snaps the twigs off of her favorite tree, as her chest heaves and her shoulders shake and she _cries_.  Cries like he’s never seen anyone cry before.  More than anything, he wants to find _his_ Penelope and he wants to hold her close and stroke her hair and _tell_ her.  Tell her that everything will be okay, whether it’s the truth or not.

Another pool of water vines from the sea and this time he knows it’s him.  A tiny, crystal clear, water droplet version of himself as he crosses the grounds.  Water Penelope wipes her eyes and nose, just like he remembers, and then his tiny self makes a timid approach until soon, both of them are sitting in that tiny tree.  

“I asked her if everything was okay,” he says.  “Stupid question, right?  Of course it wasn’t okay and, right then, she was more than willing to tell me everything that was wrong.  She told me about John—about how he stuffed the fireplace and tried to suffocate himself.  She told me about his letter to her and about how miserable he was and how she should have _known_.  And then, she told me the strangest thing, about how Scott had come in and saved the day.  About how he had, sort of, cursed John back to life, commanded him never to kill himself, and how he had… god.  He said  _you can’t be my fault too_  and I just couldn’t let go of it.”

“Too?”

Gordon nods.  “Exactly.  That was the part that picked at me, too.  Penelope and I must have talked for _hours_ about what it meant until finally, I started to wonder that if Scott could curse someone into life, could he curse someone into death, too?”

The crystal tree dissolves, droplets misting as the ships wind catches them.  A new scene forms and Gordon doesn’t need anyone to tell him where they are now.  It’s the throne room, one young man, one young woman, and one especially big-mouthed boy.  “I confronted him about it,” Gordon tells Kayo.  “I shouldn’t have.  I wish I hadn’t.  Things would have been so much easier if I had just _thought_ about what I was going to say, but no.  I barged in there and I asked him if he killed anyone—so _stupid._ ”

The water Gordon charges a water Scott, Penelope not far behind.  As he watches the scene play out, he sees Penelope trying to hold him back and he wonders _why_ he hadn’t just listened to her.  “Scott get’s real antsy when you ask him that sort of thing—understandably, seeing as he’s guilty—but he absolutely _would not_ talk about it in front of Penelope, so he asked her to go check on John.  The bastard.  He _knew_ she wouldn’t say no to that.”

Little Penelope dissolves next, leaving behind Scott and Gordon to have the biggest fight that Scott and Gordon would ever have.  He wants to tell Kayo that Scott killed their mother—wants to tell her that he wouldn’t even _admit_ to killing her until Gordon guessed what the big secret was.  He wants to tell her that he’s the only one who had figured out Scott Tracy’s biggest weakness, but he can’t.  He can’t even try.  Scott has cursed that, too.

He settles, instead, for a sidestepped explanation.  When it comes to matters of Gordon’s heart, it is almost always best to sidestep anyways.  “And then I—it was so stupid.  I _figured out_ what he did and I got all worked up and angry and I told him that I would tell everyone.  That I would reveal what he’d done to anyone who would listen.”

“I imagine he didn’t take too kindly to that,” says Kayo.

Gordon laughs.  The understatement thwacks him in the chest.  As he recites the words he could never forget, the memory plays out in the sea before him.  “May your tongue twist around her name, may you speak not of her death.  You want to threaten me, that’s fine, but it will not come without consequence, little brother.  May you take to the seas you so love, hunting for a truth that is your _own_ and not _mine_ , and may you turn to sea foam if ever you try to set foot on dry land again.  You will not tell the people what you  _think_ you know.  I will make sure that you do not have the chance.”

The dancing figurines in the water do not do the scene justice.  They do not carry the hatred in Scott’s voice and they do not reveal the fear in his eyes.  “So Scott says,” Gordon drones.  “So it shall be.”

The memories finally dissolve, back into the sea where every other part of him belongs, and Kayo pulls her hand away once more.  Without the anchor to some sort of reality, he wonders, just for the slightest second, if one day the rest of him will dissolve into the sea as well. 

“Your crown prince does not seem like a very good man,” says Kayo.

“That’s the worst part of it all,” says Gordon.  “He _is_ a good man.  A good man with a terrible secret that makes him do terrible things.”

“Well then you are in much more trouble than I thought,” she says.  “How long until we reach Melchior.”

Her edge is back and although he feels as though he’s formed a new alliance, he’s nervous about what that alliance could bring.  “We’re a few hours out.  It’s usually half a day’s trip.”

“Well that won’t do,” she says.  “What do you say we speed things up a bit?”

“What?” he says.  “How?”

“Well I could explain it to you,” she tells him.  “But even the explanation of that particular brand of magic would likely be so far over your head that it would cause each and every blood vessel in your brain to burst at exactly the same time, leaving you to seize upon this deck like a smushed bug might, moments before death.”

“… right,” he says.  “I’ll just… let you do your thing then—but be careful.  I’ve never once lost a man at sea, and I’m not starting now.”


	32. The Laugh of Two Brothers

It is unfathomably difficult to act with stealth when one is on the back of a dragon.

Not that he’s trying to be particularly sneaky about anything, but he suspects that flying into the island via dragon will cause a fair bit of alarm and additionally, he suspects that a day like today—when the kingdom is crowded and rowdy and likely quite tipsy—is not a day to test this theory.  He doesn’t want to risk the chaos, especially not when he knows that Gaat will cause a good amount of that without any extra help, and so he stays low to the sea when he flies in and tells Trinity to hide out in the forest.

It’s a bit of a walk—or rather, a full-out sprint—out of the forest, but soon enough Alan finds himself caught in a whirlwind of white ribbon, white flowers, and white doves flying after white birdseed.   It seems as though the entire kingdom is standing on the palace steps, preparing for the moment at sunset when their royal family will grow.  There’s no question about it.  There will be a wedding in Melchior and Alan’s just walked himself straight into the middle of all the preparation.

So much for avoiding chaos.

He has to duck as women toss bouquets across the steps, has to actively dodge three very giggly little girls before they can trample him flat against marble.  The entire castle is getting dressed for the occasion and Alan can’t help but feel like Melchior is far too bare.

It’s no better on the inside of the palace, guards and staffers lining the pillars with even more ribbons, even more flowers—now red, instead of the white.  The roundest roses that a garden can grow.  They should be armed, should be prepping themselves for  _battle,_ not matrimony.

Alan bolts up the golden stairs of the foyer and jets through his favorite shortcut in the second-story kitchen.  It sizzles with the heat of something savory, all of the kitchens working overtime in attempts to feed two kingdoms worth of people.  Whatever the menu, it smells glorious, and Alan swipes the heel of a bread loaf as he goes.

Scott’s chambers are near the center of the castle where it’s dark and cold and usually too quiet for even Alan.  When the youngest bursts into the oldest’s room, the doors send out a crack louder than this part of the palace has heard in years.  “Don’t you  _knock_?” says Scott.

Alan’s out of breath, so it takes him a moment to respond.  “I think maybe,” he says, “you’ll want to hold off on getting mad at me for that, because I’ve got something  _way_ better—one-hundred percent guaranteed to make you even angrier.”

Scott finishes buttoning up his sheer shirt and is just a jacket and a ceremonial robe away from his full wedding garb.  “Would you slow down?  You sound like Gordon.”

Alan meets Scott’s eyes through the mirror and in the very back of his mind, Alan wonders if maybe his brother is getting cold feet.  Wonders what kind of questions Scott asks the mirror when no one else is around.  Then, of course, he realizes that this is most definitely not the priority at the moment.  “I _miiiight_ have punched Gaat.  Like, in the face.   Hard.”

Scott’s voice is a bellow.  “You did _what_?”

“See, I really don’t think anyone is finding this as funny as they should—wait.”  Alan looks at his older brother, red-faced and furious.  His words are a bite and his fists are clenched into bright, blazing white, but Alan can’t feel anything except for undiluted joy.  “You believe me?”

“Should I _not_ believe you?” Scott barks, and he turns now, apparently to yell at real flesh and bone, rather than just the reflection.  “Because I swear to god, if you’re lying to me right now, then I will _personally_ —”

“I’m not lying,” says Alan, and even though they are the same words he’s said all his life, he can’t wait to say them again.  Can’t wait to have someone believe them—really, truly believe them.  Just the thought of it all brings a sting to his eyes.  “I punched Gaat.  He shed blood by my hand, and now he’s on his way over from across the sea.”

Glass bottles shake as Scott’s fist lands against the tabletop of his vanity.  The sound sends Alan into silence and his smile gets clenched between his teeth.  “God _damnit_ Alan,” he says.  “How could you have done something so stupid—you’re not a little kid anymore.”

That’s right.  He’s not a little kid anymore.  And he _knows_  he’s being scolded.  He _knows_ that Scott is absolutely outraged, but even still, Alan looks at his older brother and he knows—knows without a doubt—that the sky is blue.

So he hugs his brother.

And maybe it catches Scott of guard.  Maybe it even catches Alan a little bit, but today has been jam packed with one surprise after another.  He’s lost somewhere between adrenaline and joy and an overwhelming sense of _relief_ _,_ and so Alan can’t help himself.  He’s got his arms wrapped around Scott for the first time in years and, after a moment, Scott’s right there with him.  

That does not, however, mean that Scott is happy with him.  “I am unbelievably angry.”

“I know,” says Alan.

“We are _not_ done with this argument.”

“I know.

When Scott peels himself out of Alan’s grip once more, his hands land on little brother’s shoulders.  “One of us needs to find Virgil,” he says.  “If Gaat’s on his way, then we need him inside the palace walls, and then we need the guards on high alert.”

“I’ll do it,” says Alan.  “You think he’s in the woods?”

“Last I saw him was at the memorial,” Scott says.  “Check the stables, he’s out there a lot.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll go talk to Gordon about arming his men,” Scott says.  “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Scott starts to leave, quick and efficient like any good king, but he stops in his track when Alan tells him, “Gordon’s not back yet.”

Scott turns.  “What do you mean Gordon’s not back yet?” he says.  “You’re back—how did you get back if Gordon’s still at sea?”

Certainly Scott doesn’t expect Alan to shrug and say, “Dragon.”

“Now _that,_ I don’t believe.”

Alan’s grin cracks wide open once more.  “Yeah you do.”

It’s a tired shake of the head from an older brother, a finger pointed at younger, and, god help them both, just the smallest bit of a laugh between them because Scott can’t help but share whatever excitement is radiating off of Alan.  “You’re not off the hook, young man,” he says, straightening his features.  “We’re going to talk about this later.”

Scott turns on his heel, making a swift exit fit for a king.  “I love you, too!” Alan calls as he leaves.


	33. The Fear of Freed Prisoners

Men like Gaat do not have allies.  They do not think that anyone else is as capable, as intelligent, as _strong_ as they are.  They are unable to relinquish control—to consider the abilities of others and actually, there are many things in that dusty old library that Gaat had not taken the time to consider.

The most glaring of Gaat’s ignorances?  The existence of a small fairy, and her strange capability to really love a human being.

Because this must be it—this _love_ that the humans always talk about.  It must be this hiccup in her chest and this stutter in her white glow.  It must be the sight of John— _her John_ —and the weight in her wings that has her thinking she may never fly again.

It’s a quick zip across the room, but it doesn’t feel fast enough.  Every second comes with another curl of the serpent, scales shimmering as it slithers tighter around John’s throat.  She cannot, will not stand for this, because this will be the third time this boy has nearly died in her library and they always say that the third time is the charm.  

And she’s never been very good with charms.  In fact, many of her charms have resulted in disaster, usually with a very patient John on the receiving end, but she _is_  good with dust.  She’s been blowing and sweeping and collecting dust in this old library for years—it’s what she knows.  It’s what she does.  So when she sees her dearest friend dying on the other side of the room, she does not resort to charms.  She resorts to dust.

She huffs.

And she puffs.

And when she blows, she thinks of John, of all that he’s done for her, of all that she’s learned.  She thinks of all the unhappiness she’s seen, buried somewhere beneath all the smiles, and she blows.  Men like John Tracy _do_ have allies, so she blows and blows and blows until there’s no more air left in her, until the pages of John’s piles begin to flip, until the flame in that ever-burning fire begins to flicker.

Until the snake around his neck turns to dust.

She watches it dissolve, speck by speck, scale by scale, until it is no more dangerous than the ashes in the fireplace.  She listens as John catches his breath, strained and scared and necessary.  She feels as her wings shed their extra weight as John pushes himself up off of hardwood, coughing and gasping and hacking.  “Mom,” he says.  “Mom—my mom.”

This is nothing new.  EOS can’t count the number of times that John has asked for his mother, but never once has he been awake during such a request, so she fears that maybe she wasn’t quick enough.  Maybe the snake bit him, maybe he was without air for too long, maybe he’s hurt and maybe it’s her fault.

“Mom,” he says again, and this time there’s something of a laugh in his voice.  Great.  Just great.  Maybe he’s finally gone as mad as they say he is.  “That _idiot_.  He must not know—can’t know—how would he know?”

There’s another laugh, and John pulls himself onto his feet, stumbles as he clutches at his head.  He blinks once, twice, three times before the smile makes it back to his lips.  “ _Mom_.  It was _him—_ EOS?  Hey.  EOS.”

His strides are long as he makes his way towards her, and that’s what she likes most about John.  He seems to think that she’s just as big as all the humans in his life.  “EOS, do you know what this means?”

He’s muttering now, in that way he always does, and it’s not until she finds a comfy spot on his shoulder that she understands what he’s saying.  “Until you know what happened to mother… until you know what happened to mother.”

Over and over he says it, pacing as he debates something she doesn’t know, until he stops.  “I _know_ what happened to her—EOS.  He just _told me_  what happened to her, so that has to mean…”

It’s been years since John’s looked at the library door the way he does now.

His steps are slight, far too small for long legs like his.  EOS has seen him look scared, she’s seen him look startled, but the expression he wears now is one of pure terror—one she’s only ever seen on that very first day they met.  He had been so afraid to stay in the library back then.  Now he can’t bring himself to leave.

She nudges her head at the door, telling him to get on with it.  They aren’t getting any younger, after all, and he’s already spent too many human years on this side of the door.

He takes one step.  Then two.  Three, four, five until he’s there, staring at the iron engravings that curl across wood.  EOS rolls her eyes and gives him a stern kick.  “Okay, _okay,_ ” he says.  “I’m… I’m going to try.  It might not work, you know.”

But there’s no reason why it wouldn’t.  Maybe she’s no good at charms, but even she knows that much.

He opens the door—no big deal.  He’s opened the door before.  Plenty of times.  It’s not important.  Not until John starts to curl his fingers, not until he closes his eyes, not until he throws his arm past the threshold and the reality of the situation lands like an iron bar across the chest.

John’s hand is over the threshold.

He looks to EOS, as if to ask whether or not she sees it too.  She does, of course, and she flies off his shoulder with a flip, fluttering over the threshold herself and waving the rest of him over.  He’s frozen at first, petrified, so she grabs one of his fingers and _pulls_.

He does not move, obviously.  No matter what John thinks, she is still far smaller than him.  He stares at his hand as if it is detached until finally— _finally_ —he takes one more step forward.

And then John is out of the library.

EOS has never heard him laugh the way he does now.  He pats himself down, apparently making sure that he didn’t leave anything behind, and he laughs some more.  It’s no wonder they call him mad as he flies past the piles and piles of books he has yet to catalog.  It’s no wonder they think him crazy as he slides—actually _slides—_ down the banister.  His glee echoes off stone and gold as he looks left, looks right, and says, “That wasn’t anything like them.”

EOS turns her head, asking him what he means.

“The dreams,” he tells her.  “That wasn’t anything like all the dreams.”


	34. The Thoughts of Threatened Kings

He’s thinking about Virgil.  About Alan and John.  He’s thinking about his kingdom, about his neighbors—soon to be under his rule.  He’s thinking about Gordon and how long it takes to get across the sea and how many men sail the ships and _god._  How is it even possible for so many thoughts to flood his mind at once?

 _You’ll never get better_.

Thankfully he doesn’t have time to dwell on that particular thought, because Gordon’s finally docked and Scott can’t afford to wait around any longer.  He’s thinking about Gaat and a threat that’s suddenly so much more immediate than before.  He’s thinking about power and what he has to do to keep hold of it.

He walks against the flow, squeezing between sailors and even bumping into a young girl with dark skin and darker hair.  She’s the only one polite enough to say, “Excuse me,” but Scott only mutters a response before she runs off.  He’s got too much on his mind, thinking.  Thinking about everything.  

“I need to speak to Gordon,” he tells the first mate, and he doesn’t wait for a response.  It is his right to see the captain, not just as a king, but also as an older brother, so he keeps on walking until an old, grey hand lands in the center of his chest.  

“I don’t think that’s a very good h’idea,” says the first mate.

Scott’s thinking about war.  He’s thinking about a kingdom under attack.  Surely if ever there was a moral time to use his curse, now is it.  “Let me through.”

And then, of course, Scott is let through.

But the first mate follows him and as Scott descends the stairs into his brother’s cabin, he tries to remember the old man’s name.  Preston?  Patton? God, he doesn’t even know his name.

Gordon’s at his desk, hunched over, quill in hand, lines cutting across his forehead as he whispers low utterances to himself.  The sun shines in from the windows at his back, turning his golden hair white, and Scott is struck by how old his little brother looks.  When he was first sent away, he’d been short and babyfaced and temperamental.  Now he sits serenely in the grand cabin of the lead ship in his fleet—a fleet which he himself had negotiated for—writing as if the words bleed from his very fingers.  

“Captain,” says the first mate.

Scott can practically hear Gordon’s focus snap in half.  The quill stops and Gordon looks up, frozen once he realizes that his first mate is not alone.  “Scott,” he says, and there’s something familiar about his tone.  It’s the same way John says his name.

“Gordon,” Scott replies.  “You go by Captain, now?”

“Well I’m not much of a prince anymore, am I?  It’s quicker than having everyone call me Your Highness.”  He looks back down to the parchment, quill scribbling against wood once more.

Scott’s thinking about the chaos that’s looming over them.  He’s thinking about his mother and father and their efforts against Gaat.  But more than either of those things, he is thinking about Gordon.  “What are you doing?”

His head doesn’t move, but his eyes flick up at Scott, then return to his paper.  “It’s a wedding, Scott,” he says.  “Lot of speeches.  I’m a busy guy.”

“I thought you didn’t write the speeches anymore.”

“I don’t write _your_ speeches anymore,” he says.  “Because you refuse to read them.  This speech is Virgil’s best man toast and then I’m going over the vows.”

“You’re writing the vows?”

“I’m _editing_ the princess’ vows,” he says and this, apparently, requires a hefty sip from the drink at the corner of his desk.  His next words start with a hot breath.  “What do you want, Scott?  I assume you’re not here to pay me a friendly visit.”

And it’s a fair assumption.  “Gaat’s on his way,” Scott tells him.

There’s a distinct lack of interest in Gordon’s reply, his mind occupied by dotted _I_ s and crossed _T_ s.  “Gaat’s probably already here, actually.”

The words are neutral, unfeeling, absolutely absent, so Scott knows that he shouldn’t want to fight them.  He’s got more important things to think about, and yet Gordon’s indifference brings forth that crease in the center of his forehead.  “You could at least try to act like you care.  The man is coming after our kingdom, after all.”

The quill stops again.  This time, he lets it fall.  “And what do you expect me to do about that, Scott?”  Gordon asks, sitting back in his chair.  “Would you like me to go out and fight?  Marshal townspeople into a secure area, perhaps?  Lead our army on horseback—?”

“I get it.”

“Do you?” Gordon spits.  “I cannot leave this ship, Scott.  I can’t do it.  Christ, if I start to  _care_ , you’re going to have one more brother who’s out of his mind, so tell me.  What do you want from me?  Why are you on my ship, and what do I have to do to get you _off_ my ship?”

Scott’s thinking about his father.  He’s thinking about how strong and capable he had been.  A palace knight, married into the crown, ready to lead men into battle at any instance.  “I need your men,” he says.  “I need them to fight.  I’ve got the palace guards, but they won’t be enough to take on Gaat.”

“And you’re going to lead them into battle,” says Gordon.  “Just like our father would have.”

It is an accusation.  Scott knows it.  Gordon knows it.  “If I have to,” Scott answers.  “I’m going to keep the royal family inside the palace—John and Alan at least.  No one will expect them to fight.  Maybe Virgil will lead by my side, but that’s working under the assumption that we can even find him.  The palace guards will keep Gaat from getting in the doors and your men will protect the towns.”

“And where does the princess fit into this?”

It’s like someone has taken an ax to his plans and left a blade stuck right in the center of everything.  “Oh,” Scott says.  “I, um—”

“Scott,” says Gordon.  “Where is the princess?”

“I’m not…”  Because for all the thoughts running through his head, he had not been thinking about Penelope.  “She ran off.  I don’t—”

“She _ran off_?” Gordon’s leaning forward again, and it’s like he’s physically hooked onto every word, and all Scott has to do is pull.  “Melchior’s most prominent enemy is in the kingdom and you’re telling me you _don’t know_ where she is?”

“Penelope can handle herself.”

“Penelope is your _wife_.”  The words come with a screech of a chair, a slap against tabletop, as Gordon shoots to his feet.  “Until death do you part—I have the vows right next to me, if you’d like to take a look.   _She_ is your first priority, I don’t care how well she can handle herself.”

“She’s fine,” Scott says, except now he isn’t so sure, and it’s clear that Gordon doesn’t believe him.  More and more thoughts fill his head, because now he’s thinking about Penelope.  About the last time he saw her, about the last time they spoke.

She’s fine.

She’ll be fine.

“Your men, Gordon,” says Scott.  “They’ll be far more cooperative if they know you gave me your blessing.”

“Are you—” He catches himself with a laugh, but it isn’t anything like it used to be.  Gordon’s laugh has gotten as old as he has, mutilated by all those months at sea.  “Do you listen to anything I say?”

“I don’t have time for your pity party, Gordon.”

“I mean, I just talk and I talk and I don’t even think you hear it.”

“I need you to hand control over to me.”

“I’m just a stupid kid brother without anything important to say.”

“If I have your men then I can keep this kingdom safe from—”

Scott’s rambling finally comes to an end when the air gets knocked out of him.  He realizes, with a bit of a delay, that someone’s just shoved him into a wall.  His ears ring as he tries to catch his breath and when he regains awareness, he sees Gordon’s fists twisted up in his collar.  

“Listen to _this_ , Scott,” he says.  Brown eyes dance between blue as Gordon tries to gage whether or not he’s really being heard.  His breath reeks of liquor and his grip is tighter than he knows.  “I don’t care if all the towns fall and I don’t care if Gaat takes the throne.  I don’t _care_  if this kingdom is safe—you’re going to keep _her_ safe.  You have to keep her safe.”

It might be the only time Gordon’s command has ever been more powerful than Scott’s.

“Gordon, I—”

“Promise me, Scott,” he says, and he’s at his oldest now, tired and desperate and not at all the little brother that Scott sent to sea.  “Promise me that you’ll keep her safe.”

He’s thinking about Penelope.  He’s thinking about Gordon.  And then, curiously, he’s thinking about Penelope and Gordon.

The first mate—Parker.  Of course his name is Parker—stands between them now, literally pushing Gordon off of Scott.  It’s a reluctant release from the younger brother and a cautious relief from the older, but Gordon doesn’t stop staring at Scott.  He doesn’t stop begging.  

“Captain,” Parker whispers.

And just like that, Gordon’s out of it, shaking himself away from the moment, straightening his shirt back to where it’s supposed to be.  He clears his throat and very overtly avoids Scott’s gaze.  “I’ll get the word around,” he says.  “My men are yours.  You’ll want to get acquainted with the captains.  The crews are more manageable when they’re receiving orders from someone who has earned their respect.  Make sure you get to know Captain Carter, especially.  That’s my second if ever I disappear at sea and there’s not a man on any of the ships that will ignore that command.”

It makes sense, that Gordon would have a second.  Any captain should, especially a captain in his condition, but hearing him say it out loud forces Scott to think about a world without his brother.  “I didn’t know you had one of those.”

When Gordon finally does look at him, his jaw is set and he hasn’t let go of his fists.  “There’s a lot you don’t know, Scott.”

Yes.  Obviously there is.  

He thinks about the wedding.  About the union between the kingdoms.  He thinks about all the trips Penelope has made down to the ship on John’s behalf, about all the times Gordon has sailed her across the sea.  

The cabin is still thick with smoke from their fire, so it’s a daring move to say anything at all.  “Does she make you happy, Gordon?” Scott asks.  “Penelope, I mean.  Does she make you happy?”

As much as Gordon wants to act callous and cold towards Scott, the sound of her name sends him melting.  Scott isn’t supposed to notice—shouldn’t let himself notice—but it’s impossibly obvious.  “How could she not?”

Scott nods, because it’s the answer he expects.  The answer he needs.  There’s nothing left for him to do except make his exit, thinking about all the things he doesn’t want to know.


	35. The Healing of Parted Seas

Getting off the ship is easy enough, but there is a noticeable change in pace when she steps foot on shore.  People shuffle and shift every which way—some of them turn left, some of them turn right, some of them think they’re turning left when actually they’re turning right.  Children race around legs and parents chase after them before they can disappear into the crowd.  People talk.  They shake hands.  They hug.  People, people, people, everywhere she turns.  Kayo can’t remember the last time she’s been surrounded by this many people and then—

Blue eyes.  Blue as the sky above.

“Kayo, right?”

It’s the prince.  The prince from the dragon’s cave.  He’s out of breath, a hand on each of her arms as if he alone can keep her grounded, and even just the sight of a familiar face lifts the weight of this world off her shoulders.  It’s a firm four, five, six seconds before she realizes that he’s speaking to her.  “Kayo,” she confirms.  “Yes.  My name is Kayo.”

“Good,” he says.  “Great.  Kayo.  I need your help.  Not to cause alarm or anything, but we may or may not have lost a prince.  I checked where we thought he would be and it turns out he’s not there, so, uh.  Yeah.”

She dreads his answer to her next question.  “It wouldn’t happen to be the middle prince, would it?”

And the way he looks at her is like he hasn’t spent the day on a dragon’s back.  “Actually it is.  How did you— _whoa,_ okay.  Is this going to become a habit?”

The _habit_ he’s referring to is the way she grabs onto his wrist to drag him along and honestly, yeah.  Maybe this will become a habit, because so far it seems as though these princes have no idea what it means to pick up the pace.  None of them seem to understand that anyone can be thrown away at any minute, and it will be years before they’re seen again.

“Not that I mind or anything,” he says.  “But maybe you could give a guy a heads up before you—”

“I know where he is,” she says, mostly because she wants him to stop talking, but partly because she might actually have an answer.  The river. The third prince is always by the river.  

At least, that’s what she thinks, right up until she hears the howl.

It stops the pair of them where they stand.  They stand along the outskirts of the crowd now, closer to the forest, but what few people surround them turn their heads to meet the sound.  It’s a ravenous, echoed thing, far too close as it scales off of brick buildings and rooftops.  A cry meant for the forest rings in the ears of the townspeople and Kayo’s heart aches when she tries to imagine what kind of mischief her uncle has spun up this time.

It’s a one-eighty turn back into the crowd, eliciting a bit of a shock from the prince who lags behind her.  “Man you are just _really_ strong.”

“Uh huh,” she says, but truthfully she isn’t listening.  One voice fades into another, useless chatter filling her head because people, people, _people_ surround her on every side.  It only gets denser as they get farther into town and as she pushes past men, women, and children alike, it occurs to her that she can’t actually remember the last time she’s come into contact with another person.

It’s a thought that makes the prince’s skin feel molten, so she lets him go before she can get burned.  He might ask her if she’s okay—might ask what she sees, but the last of the afternoon sun beats down on the back of her neck and her ears are stuffed with years of her own silence.  There’s people.  So many people.

She can’t take it anymore—won’t take it anymore—so she holds a thumb and a finger to her lips and with one, steady breath, she lets out a whistle, piercing through the thick air.  With one, single call across the town, she parts the crowd.  “ _Move_.”

No one dares to defy the command.

At the other side of the Red Sea, a familiar wolf stands upon four legs.  Beside her, she hears the shred of a bared sword.  The crowds back away even further, not sure what’s more dangerous—the wolf at the center of town square, or the Teatime Prince with a sword that, once upon a time, had belonged to his father.

Kayo rolls her eyes.  “Honestly, how have you boys lasted this long?” she says, low and covert, so that only Alan can hear.  “Put the sword down.  It’s not a beast, it’s your brother.”

“It’s my who now?”

When she speaks to the wolf, she speaks to all of him, even the boy inside.  She knows what it’s like, after all, to be able to see the world and have no control over what part she plays over it.  To be stuck on the other side of a sight she’d rather not see.  “You do not want to hurt these people,” she reminds him.

The wolf only snarls in response.

“Well excuse me,” she says.  “And here I thought we had been warming up to one another.”

Another snarl, this time accompanied by a swift drop onto his front paws.  The crowd lets out a collective gasp, but Kayo knows that there is plenty to be afraid of in this world and this wolf does not make the list.  She holds he hands out to him, one step forward.  Two.  Three, four, five until finally, she’s there.  She can see the white of his teeth, the filth in his fur, and the undeniable divide in his eyes. 

Wolf.  Boy.  An entire world in between the two.

“Now more than ever, it is very important that you listen to me,” she tells the wold, hands still extended as they inch ever so slowly closer to him.  He growls with a great deal of purpose, but it’s a lot of noise for someone who wouldn’t dare lash out against anyone but himself.  “You _must_ make peace with your beast.”

A bark, a protest if ever she’s heard one.

“Your family is in danger.  Your kingdom is in danger.”  It occurs to her that these are both things that he already knows.  What he doesn’t know, is how to make peace, because if he did, he would have done it long ago.  “It’s easy,” she says.  “It’s like falling asleep and letting your dreams remind you of all the things you love.”

Her palms finally land, one on his snout, on on his neck, and she feels the mighty wolf shake with fear.  “Easy,” she says.  “They need you.”

And it’s when the shaking stops that she knows something has changed.  Something has clicked.  She watches as the wolf’s back legs collapse and she knows—she just knows—that they can’t be here anymore.

She looks across cobblestone and silently calls for the assistance of the younger prince.  He stashes his sword back along his waist and runs across the square.  Between the two of them, they’re just able to move the wolf as his body begins to crack.  “C’mon big guy,” says Alan.  “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

And as they disappear, the townspeople begin to whisper, as the part in the crowd collapses on itself once more.


	36. A Rose of Stripped Petals

He’s going to check on John.  He’s going to check on John because now Gordon’s got him thinking—in that way Gordon usually does—about the things that happen without his knowledge.  

As much as he hates to admit it, Gordon had been right to call him out for the exclusion of Penelope.  She’s family now and, whether they believe it or not, family has always come first for Scott.  It’s what his father taught him.  This king business is starting to mess with his head—starting to convince him that the people in his kingdom somehow mean more to him than the people in his heart.  John will set him straight.  John always does.  He’s going to check on John.

Except, something doesn’t feel quite right.  He can’t describe it, but it’s a prickle on the back of his neck, a twinge in his jaw, a sense that something is where it shouldn’t be.  It’s enough to stop him in his tracks and send him backwards one step, two steps, three, until he’s looking in his throne room at the man who sits upon his throne.

Scott has never met King Gaat—or he has, obviously, but he can’t remember.  The relations between Melchior and Balthazar had been held exclusively through his father and when he disappeared, so too did the relationship with Gaat.  It is maybe a pinch of cruel fate that the first time Scott meets the king, he sits upon the wrong throne, wearing the wrong crown.

It’s a fine twist of silver branches, gold looped through here and there.  Scott remembers the exact day when John got his crown—the two of them had gallivanted through the woods all afternoon together, Scott rescuing maidens and John making royal decrees.  Their swords had been made of whittled wood, but their crowns.  Their crowns had been so very real and John had been so very proud. 

That crown does not belong on Gaat’s head.

“Where did you get that?” Scott says, charging at the very throne that will soon be his.  “ _How_ did you get that?  Why are you here—where’s John?”

Gaat sits across the golden throne with his legs flung over the side.  He wears John’s crown atop his head and spins the stem of a deep red rose in between his fingers.  “My dear boy,” says Gaat.  “There will be no need to worry about that particular brother anymore.”

The words sound comforting on their surface.  Do not worry.  Do not fear.  It’s all Scott’s ever hoped to hear in regards to John—that he’s safe, that he’s happy, that Scott doesn’t have to worry anymore—except Scott knows he could never trust a king who sits on another’s throne.  The words are not a comfort, they are a conclusion.  Do not worry about John, for there is no longer a John to worry about.

When princes are young, they are taught to act with grace, to lead with levelheadedness, to listen.  Prince Scott has never been exceptionally good at meeting any of this criteria, so it should come as no surprise when he turns on his heel and takes off towards the library.  There’s no time for consideration as he falls into a one-track mind—John, John, where is John?

And, in fact, it doesn’t come as a surprise, because before Scott can even reach the end of the aisle, Gaat has waved the doors shut.  Scott pushes anyways, thinking that there must be a way out—that Gaat can’t have trapped him again—but no matter how much he bangs and kicks, the doors do not budge.  “Let me out,” he calls.  “Let me _out_.  I want  _out_.”

In between his own strikes at wood, Scott can make out the shuffle of Gaat’s cloak, the way he sits up straight on a throne he hasn’t earned. “Oh stop it,” says Gaat.  “Stop it, boy.  It’s no fun when you beg—your father never begged, you know.”

His father.  His father.  Scott spins on the imposter.  “What do you want from me?” he barks.  “Is it not enough for you to curse me?  You have to take away my kingdom?  Leave me with even less of my family than I already have?”

The ferocity in his own voice surprises even Scott, but Gaat just smiles as if it’s all he could have hoped for.  “Dear boy, you have been misinformed,” he says, the rose still dancing in his hands.  "The curse you speak of was not actually a curse at all.”

“What have you done with John?”

“It was a gift, to the new prince of a neighboring kingdom.”

“John.  Where is John?”

“What prince does not wish for his commands to become law?”

“ _Where is my brother_?”

“Ahh, your brother,” says Gaat, sitting back until he’s perfectly _comfortable_.  It’s like the whole world has brightened for him as he snaps the thorns from the rose, one by one by one, and lets them fall to his feet. “That is precisely what I came to talk to you about.”

Scott’s footsteps echo back at him, long even strides across bare tile.  He stands at the center of it all, feeling no larger than a crumb.  “Do not play games with me,” Scott says.

“I think you’ll find that I am not the one who plays games with you.”  ‘Round and around, the rose spins on its stem, and Scott’s eyes get caught on it.  “But I suspect you already know that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come now.  Do at least _try_  to appear somewhat informed.  You are many things, Prince Scott, but you are no idiot.”  Gaat holds out the rose, then plucks a petal from the flower.  It flutters to the floor and maybe he is just imagining it, but its seems as though that, too, echoes throughout the massive room.  “She loves you”—another petal—“she loves you not.”

“Stop it.”

“She loves you.”  Pluck.  “She loves you not.”

“I don’t—” He chokes on his own words and he wonders, maybe, if there’s an entire garden blossoming in his throat.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do,” Gaat insists.  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you.  On this kingdom.  On that rascally brother of yours who sails the seas, thinking that he act with the same irresponsibility at home as he does in the rest of the world.  You see the look in his eye, same as I do.”

Scott tries to ignore the image in his mind, the plea in Gordon’s eyes as he begged for a promise—just one promise.  To keep Penelope safe.  “I know not of what you speak.”

Pluck.  “She loves you.”  Pluck.  “She loves you not.”

“I never asked her to love me,” he says.  “Only to marry me.”

Pluck.  “She loves you.”  Pluck.  “She loves you not.”

“She will fulfill her duties.  She will make her vows.”

Pluck.  “She loves you.”  Pluck.  “She loves you not.”

“Stop it.”

Pluck.

“ _Stop it_.”

Pluck.

He doesn’t realize he’s even moved until he’s inches away from Gaat and there’s a rose snatched up into his palm.  He stands atop a flood of red petals and, when he opens his hand, even more of them drip down to the floor, this time wrinkled and ruined.  “She loves you,” Gaat says one more time.

“She loves _him_ ,” Scott finishes.  The rose has been shredded and shaken down to its barest petals, not much more than a bud.  “And _god_ , does he love her.”

Gaat smiles.  “What an interesting predicament.”  Scott towers over Gaat now, but even still he feels inferior to the man with John’s crown.  “I would _hate_ to see how the people reacted, if they were to find out about this.  There would be riots.  There would be scandal.”

It’s true.  Scott knows it’s true, because these are the thoughts he’s been having ever since he left Gordon’s cabin.  His mother had taken the hand of the palace knight, but at least she hadn’t lied about it.  She hadn’t tried to deceive anyone.  Just last night, Penelope had told him that Gordon meant nothing to her—she had made a _fool_ out of him.  Would the townspeople even trust her with a crown?  Would he?

“You brother would be hanged for treason, surely,” says Gaat.  “They’d let you do the honors, of course.  They always do.”  

The king’s glee does not escape Scott’s attention, but he doesn’t know what else he can do.  Truth be told, he had wanted this—wanted someone to spell it out for him, to make sure that he wasn’t imagining things.  At least now he knows that it’s not just the wedding making him crazy.

“And if they found out that your wife was impure—that any heirs she produced shared her impurity… well I don’t know what they would do, but I imagine it wouldn’t end well for our dear princess, or any of your children for that matter,” Gaat tells him, and it’s making sense. As much as he doesn’t want to believe the king, he’s making all the sense in the world.  “Just imagine the outcry—all your parents worked for, demolished in moments.  Your father’s legacy, destroyed.  Your mother’s royal bloodline, tainted by the history of a corrupt princess.”

Scott knows this.  Of course he knows this.  It’s been playing through his head, over and over, as he tries to debate what the hell he’s supposed to do about it. It must show plain on Scott’s face, because Gaat laughs.  “And speaking of mothers—”

Scott’s heart skips a beat.  All at once, he realizes who he’s talking to, and he knows that none of this has been laid out for his benefit.  “Why are you telling me this?”

Gaat smiles, like maybe Scott is finally rising up to his expectations.  “If I were you, I would make sure that everything is in order for this evening.  It is very important to me that this wedding goes off without a hitch.”

“Why?”

“That is a very good question.”

“Where’s John?”

“Also a very good question.”  Gaat stands, finally, and Scott still stands taller, but Gaat still wears the crown.  “It’s a beautiful day for a wedding, _Your Highness._ I would hate for the sounds of rioting to drown out those lovely church bells.”

The two of them face each other and it’s clear that this goes beyond just the two of them.  This is not man versus man—it is king versus king, Melchior versus Balthazar.  Scott feels the ghost of his mother at his back, standing tall against Gaat just like she always has, while Scott pieces together the fact that he’s just been threatened.  That he doesn’t much _like_ being threatened.

And when he’s sure that the message has been throughly received, Gaat waves his hand once more, and the doors at the rear of the room open.  The rose falls from Scott’s hand as he bolts for the doors, his mind falling to one thing, and one thing only.

John.  He has to find John.


	37. The Ghost of Moments Past

This is John’s third broom closet.

And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.  Maybe he wouldn’t mind it all that much except the thing about accidentally stumbling into broom closets is that one must then very purposefully stumble back out of them, and there is simply no good way to do that.

His first exit had given a particularly nasty fright to one of the passing maids, eliciting calls of a ghost as she ran.  His second attempt had caused a young man, not much older than himself, to stare and stare hard.  Stare until it was uncomfortable for the both of them and then stare some more.  Needless to say, neither of these instances had been exceedingly helpful with the situation at hand.

So he’s a little bit relieved when he steps out of this third broom closet and no one is around to see him.  If his first two interactions with the outside world are any indication, then  he’s going to have to find Scott without any help.  A task which would prove to be a bit easier if he had any earthly idea where he was going.

“Which way now?”

The little white fairy stands up on his shoulder, sticks her arm straight out, and, with a fair amount of gusto, points down a hallway to his left.  “Didn’t we just come from that way?”

Arm still firmly in place, she makes a full rotation to point to the right, face full of the very same confidence as before.  “You have no idea where we are, do you?” he asks her.  

And with that, her arm falls.  All of her falls, in fact, plopping back down onto John’s shoulder with the kind of drawn-out huff of air that tells him he is simply expecting too much from her little fairy soul.  “Well I’m _sorry._ I didn’t realize that the escape from my thirteen-year prison would be such an inconvenience to you.”

She rolls her great big eyes at him.

“We really do have to find one of them,” he says, and that much isn’t a joke.  The prophesy strums through his head like a violin, stuck on a single note as he drags his bow back and forth across a single string. When bells sing out that vows are made, nothing then will be the same, for when horizon grabs the sun, to a single family, three kingdoms won. 

The prophesy, John notes, does not state _which_ family.  For all he knows, the local blacksmith could be the next one to sit on the throne, but Gaat believes it’s him.  He believes it enough to trap his own niece within the sky’s reflection, and if he’s willing to go to that extreme, then there’s no doubt in John’s mind that he will be willing to go to others.  

That’s why Gaat’s here.  That’s why he’s getting all his pieces into position. As soon as the vows are made, he’s going to make his move.  John doesn’t know what the move will be or what kind of chaos it will cause, but it’s not going to happen until _after_ the vows are made.  Of that much, he’s certain.  Put off the vows, and you put off the danger.  The only logical move is to stop his best friend’s wedding before it even starts.

It’s the perfect plan—or, well, it _would_ be the perfect plan, but the fact is that John’s spent his whole life inside of a building he doesn’t know.  This palace is huge, and John’s pretty sure he’s stuck in the middle of a passage he’d never explored when he was younger.  He can’t remember which hallways lead where, can remember which doors open what, can’t remember all the ways he and Scott used to run up the stairs together.

And then, very occasionally, he’ll pass an alcove he thinks he used to read in.  He passes a room that he might have shared with Virgil, once upon a time, and—is that where Penelope twisted her ankle all those years ago or was that at the base of another set of stairs?

The memories strike him in thick, dense doses, attacking each of his senses with everything that once was.  His mother.  His father.  All the years he can never get back.  It almost makes him wish for the library.  Small and quiet, aware of every inch at every moment.  He almost wants to go back.  Almost.

“Well,” John sighs.  “This wedding’s not going to stop itself.”

And that’s all it takes.  That’s the thought that gets him moving again, navigating his way through his childhood home as he swats away the moments he can’t quite remember.  


	38. A Princess of New Packs

Is it hot in here?

The sun beats down his neck, soaking through to his spine as two of the shortest people on the goddamn _planet_ try to keep him standing.  His body creaks and shifts, except isn’t the snapping that he’s used to.  It’s the pop of a joint, the stretch of a muscle.  It’s movements that feel wrong, but not entirely bad, as the whole world changes from one state to the next.  

Because he no longer fights the wolf.  Instead, he pays close attention to all that the wolf thinks.  He lets his pride fall, lets his humanity dither, and lets the wolf tell him what they need.  

And it’s strange—truly strange—because he doesn’t expect to see his own memories in the wolf’s mind.  He doesn’t expect to revisit a time when he and his brothers built forts in the forest, when his mother played her violin throughout the palace hallways, when every seat at the dining table was full.  It’s not quite nostalgia and it’s not quite desire, but the need to fulfill some sort of absence is real and urgent.

Why is it so hot?

The wolf is relentless in its remembering, flipping through one memory after another.  There’s late night discussions with Gordon and sword training with Scott.  There’s a thoughtful, energetic John and a very small Alan crying in their mother’s arms.  It’s a menagerie of memories, each one a beast all their own, and they pounce at him with more ferocity than he expects.  The rips in his muscle are nothing when they’re put up against the strength of these memories. 

The three of them stumble through a crowd, then down an alley where, finally, shade streaks his skin.  It’s a relief, certainly, but not relief enough.  He’s still boiling—still on fire.  A bell chimes and then, her voice.  “You.  Out.”

Virgil doesn’t know what else she says or even who she speaks to.  All he knows is that the wolf remembers learning the violin, remembers shouting at his brothers, remembers the moment their mother fell ill.

A pack.  The wolf remembers a pack.

“… burning up,” she says, her voice in an out.  He can’t imagine that it’s her—really, truly her.  She should be in the sky—the sky?  No.  The reflection.  Something… something.  “Give me that.”

A cold, wet cloth against his forehead is a shock that sends him into some sort of strange hyperrealistic awareness of his fingers, toes, and everything in between.  His humanity is struck back into his beating heart and he realizes, for the first time, that he’s staring at the same eyes he’s caught in the river three times before.  

The words are huffed.  Exhausted.  Mere utterances fumbling of the lips of a man who can’t quite breathe.  “What green eyes you have.”

Her smile is something he doesn’t know how to believe.

“What…” He has to catch his breath—can’t quite remember what’s happening. They’re in a shop, filled with finely threaded blankets and tapestries.  Alan’s here.  Why is Alan here?  Where is Hiram?  “You were in the sky,” is all he manages to get out.  “You were… the sky’s reflection… I thought…”

She nods, and the cloth finds it’s way down his cheeks, then around his neck.  “Yeah, well, you were just a wolf, Virg,” says Alan.  “I don’t think you’re really in the position to tell the lady she belongs in the sky.”

And there must be a little wolf left in him, because his next words are a bark.  “You don’t refer to a princess as _the lady_ , you ass.”

This stops the fussing.  The princess no longer dabs at his skin and instead, stares at him with a great deal of inquiry.  Alan, on the other hand, possesses no such subtlety.  “Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ ,” he says, turning to the princess now.  “You’re a _princess_?”

Her gaze doesn’t leave Virgil and when she narrows her eyes at him, there’s no doubt in his mind that she had been counting on keeping that particular piece of information close to the heart.  “Yes,” she admits.  “The princess to Kingdom Balthazar.  And the rightful heir to the throne.”

“You never said _that_ ,” Alan says.

“You never asked,” she replies.  “And anyways it’s not exactly the sort of information that I want to make known.“

She turns to Virgil once more, the cloth turning a rapid red as she presses the spots that bleed.  It’s surprisingly tame, actually.  The blood.  He’s used to seeing so much more of it, but this time it’s different.  This time he remembers.

God, it is _really_ hot.

“So you know about my curse,” she says.  “You know about how I was trapped in the sky’s reflection.  What else do you know?”

Her eyes are precisely the same color as her uncle’s, but that is where the similarities end.  Where his eyes had held only years of greed, hers hold years of opportunity.  Of planning.  Of vengeance.  He is no longer the boy on the other side of her reflection.  He is an ally.  “My brother,” he says.  “John.  John knows more than me—is John okay?”

“Hold on,” says Alan, urgent.  Immediate.  “Why the hell wouldn’t John be okay?”

“He was in the library,” says Virgil.  “Gaat.  He was in the library and I don’t know—”

“As if John doesn’t have it bad enough,” Alan says.  “Stuck up in that tower all his life—I’ll kill Gaat myself if he even thought about—”

“No.”  That’s Virgil again, and he looks at Kayo like she’s the reason the sun is in the sky.  Hell, maybe she is.  “What happens to _you_?” he says.  “What happens to you if we kill him.”

There’s a moment between the two of them, each one calling the other’s bluff.  There’s information here that he’s not supposed to know, and she wouldn’t dare give away more than she has to.  The shop drowns in silence as they debate all the things in the world that are meant to go unsaid.  “Then I will be the only remaining Gaat.”

“And what does that mean for the sky?” he asks.

She smiles—a half-grin, corner-tick of a smirk.  “So you _do_ know about the curse.”

Beside them, Alan groans.  “ _More_ curses?”

“My family has held the sky up for generations,” she says.  “As more of us disappear, the responsibility falls onto those who remain.  There’s never been just one Gaat before.  I don’t know what happens if we kill him.”

Something about the way she looks at him makes him think that she’s lying.  That she knows exactly what will happen—that if even one more cloud falls across her shoulders, she’ll crumble under the weight.  “You just worry about the sky,” he says.  Then, with a glance at Alan, then back to her, “And let us worry about holding _you_ up.”

Because that’s what it means to have a pack.  Because from this point on, they’re all going to have each other’s backs.  She’s maybe a little bit surprised by the idea of having an army of young princes at her disposal, and Virgil knows the feeling.  “Well then, by all means,” she says.  “Put a shirt on.  We’ve got a wedding to get to.”


	39. A Fear of What Comes

Contrary to popular belief, Prince Scott feels fear the same way anyone else does—swiftly, significantly, and with the kind of uncertain certainty that tastes bitter on his tongue.  The difference, however, between Prince Scott and his people is the very same difference that has separated prince from pauper for centuries.  Prince Scott is brave.  Prince Scott is strong.  Prince Scott is of the minority who run towards the fear, rather than away.

Prince Scott is very, very stupid.

Because as far as he can tell, nothing good ever comes from running towards the fear.  As far as he can tell, it’s just something that he’s _supposed_ to do, but the fundemental problem with running towards the fear is that sooner—not later—he’s going to have to face it.

John’s gone.

He’s dreamed about the day when he could walk into this library and hear the absence.  He’s dreamed about dusty books and an unattended fire, about the lack of shuffling socks or crackling parchment.  Scott has yearned for an empty library ever since he stuffed it full of John’s idiosyncrasies, but now he wants nothing more than the barely sarcastic grumble of his younger brother.

He’s gone.  John’s gone.

And he tries—he _tries_ to think of a way that it can be possible.  Tries to come up with a solution that isn’t the obvious one, except there’s a voice in his head screaming that John’s dead, John’s dead, John’s dead, and that everyone Scott’s ever loved is a victim to his own fears.

John’s gone.  Oh god, John’s gone.

What will he tell the others?  That they need to have another funeral?  That they will need to send another boat out on the sea?  Does he even bother telling them at all, or does he just erase the library from their memories altogether?  Would that, in turn, erase John?  

And is it kinder to erase John than to let them miss him?

“Prince Scott?”

John’s gone.  John’s gone.  There’s not even a body to bury.  It will be just like their father all over again.

“Prince Scott. Your Highness, please.”

How could he let this happen?  How could he have trapped his brother, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide on the day when King Gaat came to visit?  John’s _gone_.  John’s gone, and it’s his fault, and it’s always his fault, and—

Air.  

 _Shit_ , he can’t breathe.  

A rock has just landed in his stomach at the exact same time that a thief has stolen air from the sky.  He keels over, but his gut wont pull in any breaths and he’s sure that it must be a curse of some sort—a spell which has taken everything from him, even his ability to breathe—but he sees the blonde hair, flickering against the light of a golden flame, and he knows that everything will be fine.

Except it isn’t Penelope’s voice he hears.  “Sorry!” she says, quick and just a little bit frantic.  Her hands are on his shoulders, helping him to stand straight once more.  “So sorry.  That tends to work with Prince Gordon.”

His breaths return gradually, deeper and deeper with each huff, and it slowly becomes clearer and clearer that no spell has been cast.  He is not breathless.  Instead, he is facing a young woman with a firm right hook and impeccable aim.  “Do you make a habit out of punching princes?” he wheezes.

“Well, to be fair, Prince Gordon says it helps,” she says.  “But between you and me, Prince Gordon has always been a bit extreme.  Probably should have asked before I landed one straight in your stomach.”

“Or you could have avoided the situation altogether.”

“Well, you see, I did try,” she tells him.  “But you were—well frankly Your Highness, I’ve seen fish out of water with more control than you had just a moment ago.”

The way she speaks is all _Your Highness_  and _Prince_ and all the marks of any loyal staffer, but generally speaking, loyal staffers don’t go around landing punches in the stomachs of the royal family, so he’s left a bit confused as to who, exactly, he’s speaking to.  “And just who do you think you are?  Punching me or Gordon or _anyone_?”

“You know, they call you Prince Charming, but so far you’re just very grumpy.”

“You just _punched me_.”

“And you’re very welcome,” she says.  “Captain Jane Carter.  At your service.  I’m the captain of your brother’s second ship, and he said you requested my assistance.”

She sticks her hand out to him, obviously expecting him to shake, but he hasn’t even fully caught his breath yet.  It takes a great deal of effort to even straighten the knot in his stomach, so when he finally does look up, he’s perfectly prepared to give her a piece of his mind.

But then he sees her, and maybe he’d been wrong.  Maybe a spell _has_ been cast and maybe he _is_ a little bit breathless.

It’s her eyes he sees first, and maybe that’s silly.  He’d later come to notice the slim shadow cast by a button nose or the stern line she presses her lips into when she’s most afraid to say the things she thinks, but for now, it’s the eyes.  They’re locked onto him, lost somewhere between the moss of the forest and the blue of crystal clear waters—land and sea finally united in the eyes of a woman who’s just left a twist in his gut.  “Oh,” he says.

Her hand is still out, still waiting for him to act, but it’s like he’s forgotten every word he’s ever known as he processes the situation.  “Prince Scott?” she says, voice soft, tone firm, like she _really_ doesn’t want to punch him again, but she will if it comes to that.

He reaches out.  Shakes.  Clears his throat.  “Yes, I—yeah.  I didn’t realize that you were—”

“A woman,” she finishes.  “Yeah, neither did the entire crew until about fourteen months ago.”

He actually manages a laugh because, hey, that’s pretty impressive, but as he holds her hand there’s something inside of him that feels downright repulsed.  It’s the sort of numbness that demands attention, lingering beneath the surface of whatever else occurs, and even though he’s able to forget what’s missing, it only takes a split second to remember.  John.  John’s gone.  John’s dead.

Gaat _killed_ John, and he’s going to kill again.

All at once, the captain’s eyes seem like the most trivial thing imaginable.  “We need to mobilize,” he says.  “We need to, um.  We need to…”

He’s still shaking her hand.  He doesn’t notice.  John’s gone.  What’s he supposed to do without John?  He’s _always_ had John. Longer than he’s had a mother or a father, he’s had John. 

The woman on the other end of the handshake waits patiently, but eventually she nudges.  It’s gentle, but firm, and Scott can’t figure out the punchline to whatever cosmic joke has placed two blonde women in his life who can hear every thought that crosses his mind before they reach his lips.  “It might help,” she says, “if we knew what were mobilizing against?”

He nods.  Right.  Right, that makes sense.  An army has to have someone to fight.  “King Gaat has made the trip to our island,” he says, and this freezes their handshake somewhere in the middle.  “As far as I can tell, he’s come alone, but he’s very powerful and I need Gordon’s men to protect the townspeople.”

Somewhere down the line, he will also come to notice the tick in her jaw whenever she’s biting back a thought.  He does not, however, see it now.  “And you want me lead them?”

“Prince Gordon is incapable.  He’s fallen very ill and—”

“Spare me the fibs, Your Highness,” she says.  “I know he can’t leave his ship.  He never did tell me why, so I stopped asking, but I’m pretty sure that you and I both know he hasn’t _fallen ill_.”

He can see why she’s Gordon’s second.  “Right,” he says.  “Well, yes.  You’re correct.  I need someone to lead them—simple protection duty.  I think you should let  _me_ handle Gaat.”

She nods, strict as a knight, stern as a sailor.  “You let me know if you need backup.”

“Will do.”

“Prince Scott?”

“Yeah.”

“Could I maybe have my hand back?”

To his abject horror, he discovers that he’s still shaking her hand and pulls it back.  “Yes.  Right.  Apologies, Captain.”

“No apology necessary, Your Highness,” she says, that smile crossing her lips once more.  “And I really am sorry about that hit.  Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be just fine.  And don’t be.  It worked.”

“Oh, no.  I mean, I’m glad to hear that, but actually I meant, are you sure you’re okay to fight?” she says, and there’s those eyes again.  What a color.  It’s the tide washing up upon a meadow.  It’s a blue flood in his emerald garden.  “You looked pretty… well.  You didn’t look good, Your Highness.”

John’s gone.  John’s not coming back.  Gaat has his crown and Scott can’t make his brother reappear, so he says the words that feel so very true.  He tells her exactly what runs through his mind as he faces a world without John.  “I don’t know what I need to do,” he says.

And then she says the words that feel even simpler.  “You’re about to be king, Your Highness.  I bet you know a lot more than you think.”

It lands harder than any punch could—the fact that he _does_ know what to do.  The fact that he’s known since he first saw King Gaat sitting upon the throne.  Scott can’t fix John, but he can fix everything else, and that’s exactly what he intends to do.  “Thank you, Captain,” he says with a final, curt nod.  “Thank you, I—I have to go.”

“I’ll lead the men,” she says.  “See you on the other side?”

He takes one more moment to look at her.  One more moment to remember the exact color of those striking eyes, and he hopes—prays—that he’s telling the truth when he says, “See you on the other side.”

And then Scott Tracy does what Scott Tracy does best.  He walks straight towards all of his very worst fears and hopes for the best.


	40. The Curse of Faithful Lovers

This corset is too tight, the room is too hot, and she can’t breathe.

The dress is the sort of thing that young princesses dream about.  It’s grand and white and everything it’s supposed to be, perfectly cut and trimmed to her exact measurements.  Thick white lace crawls up her torso like ivy, wrapping itself around breast, collarbone, and all the way down her arms.  She’s practically swimming in satin, layers upon layers of cloth stacked up around her, just so that she may stand within the perfect amount of _puff_.  Her hair is pinned together with sapphires that were once her mothers, she wears a garter made of imported silk, and although she has yet to add a veil, she knows that that, too, will be utterly satisfactory.  The dress itself is _beautiful_ , made up of the same stuff that forms dream clouds, but someone has tied her corset too tight, everybody is gone, and she can’t breathe.

But everything’s going to be fine.  Everything’s going to be great.  Scott is a good man.  She’s marrying into a strong kingdom, a wealthy family, and a reign with a rich history and promising future.  A future which _she_ will have to contribute to, of course—of course.  She _knows_ this.  She’s known this from the start.  Everything’s fine, except for this damn corset is too tight, her almost-husband is cursed indefinitely, and she can’t breathe.

The room is stuffy.  That’s the real problem.  If she could just open a window, she’d be fine.  She’d just be goddamn perfectly fine.  Except the only window in this room is a great round stained glass that sits just below the point of the ceiling, casting diamonds of dark red upon a gown that still smells of the sea across which it traveled.  Satin, lace, even her skin—all of it tainted with this bloodshed sunlight.

“Penelope?”

It’s a voice she knows well and a voice she will be getting to know even better over the oncoming years, but thankfully she can’t see him and, even more thankfully, he can’t see her.  “Scott!” she says, swiping fingers under her eyes.  “You shouldn’t—oh, darling, you shouldn’t be here.  I’m all dressed up and it’s bad luck to see each other before the wedding, you know.”

She hears his footsteps continue anyways, one right after another, and she takes a moment to truly appreciate the fact that a divider stands between them.  “Yeah,” he says, almost to himself.  “Bad luck.”

And it’s moments like this—moments when he sounds so solemn, so absent—that make her heart break for him, because she _wants_  to love him.  She wants to give him everything she has, but the fact of the matter is that she’s lost the majority of her heart to the sea and she’s not sure how to find it again.  “What is it, darling?” she says.  “Why do I feel as though there is something you’re not telling me?”

“Honestly, Penelope,” he says.  “I think it’s mostly about what _you’re_ not telling _me_.”

And, oh, there’s her heart, beating away beneath a corset strung too tight.  She can’t breathe and, God as her witness, her first act as queen will be to fire the woman who tied these laces.  “What is it that I’m not telling you, exactly?”

The window casts its red light across her figure, stretching her silhouette across the divider so that Scott can see her shadow, but she cannot see his.  She wonders, briefly, which shadows her God can see.  “Do you love him?” asks Scott.

She can’t breathe.  This would be so much easier if she could breathe.  “I assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Penelope…”  

It’s not a command, but even still she feels a desperate need to answer.  With nothing between them except the thin boards of a flimsy divider, she’s met with the overwhelming urge to break down and confess all of her sins, right then and right there.  “I can’t—”  The words catch in her throat, a secret for so long.  It’s now or never, and never simply isn’t an option in marriage.  “It’s Gordon, Scott.  Of course it’s Gordon, but what does it matter?  It’s not _Gordon_ I’m engaged to, it’s you.”

She’s met with silence—the sort of silence that isn’t actually silent at all, but is instead the version of silence that’s made up of many different words trying to escape all at once, until they inevitably get stuck on the way out.  “How long?” he finally says.  “How long has it been—?”

“Years.”

“ _Years_?”  His voice lacks the anger she expects and, in a way, the whisper is so much worse.  “God, is it—is that why you said all those things at the council meeting?  Is that why you’re…”

Saltwater stings at her eyes.  “I’m not sure I should tell you much else.”

“Is it _love_ though?” he asks.  “I mean, do you feel it in your _gut_?”

Tighter and tighter, the corset won’t let up.  Her breaths pull shallower with each and every stroke.  “I feel it everywhere,” she tells him.

And she _knows_ it’s not the answer he wants to hear, but everything is suddenly moving so much faster and she’s tired of trying to keep up.  She loves Gordon.  She is engaged to Scott.  Such is life and such is love.  “I don’t think…” he begins, and while it’s a bit timid at first, he clears his throat and starts anew.  “I don’t think you should see him again.”

That’s about the moment she decides she can’t take it anymore.  Bad luck or not, it doesn’t get much worse than this on a wedding day, and so she steps out from behind the divider and faces the man she’s meant to meet at sunset.  “Not at all?”

“Not ever.”  He has dark grey circles under his eyes and wrinkles where his dimples usually sit.  The stained glass casts red against his skin too, but he doesn’t seem to notice.  “And I think you should tell him that it was all a lie.  That you never loved him to begin with.”

The corset is too tight, her hairs stand on end, and she can’t breathe.  She feels the wind of an oncoming storm—she _knows_ the dangers that await her—but still she stands her ground because, in the end, isn’t that what love is?  “I will never tell him that.”

It’s the signature look of defeat if ever she’s seen it.  It’s a prayer that’s gone unanswered.  “Penelope.  Please don’t make me do this.”

“No,” she says.  “No, Scott, listen.  I’m not making you do anything.”

She reaches out to hold his hand, but he backs away.  She reaches out to his arms, to his shoulders, but he pushes her arms aside.  She tries and tries to just _reach_ him, but the fact is that he’s too far gone.  “Scott.  Talk to me.  Tell me what happened.”

“Happened?  Penelope, what—what _hasn’t_  happened?”

“We can fix this.  You have to _talk_ to me Scott.”

“Talking is going to get more people killed,” he says.  “You have to understand that people are going to die.”

“ _Talk to me_ ,” she pleads.  “You’re better than this.  Please.  Please just—”

“This wedding needs to work.  I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“ _Please_.”

And then it’s his turn to reach out to her, to grab her, to hold her there, because he can and he will and he needs her to know that.  “You _will_ stop seeing him,” he commands.  Each sentence is articulated with a shake.  A plea.  “You will go to the docks.  You will tell him that you do not love him—that you never did—and that will be the last time you set foot on his ship.  Do you… _please_.  Do you understand?”

She doesn’t.  She doesn’t understand what could have happened.  Just yesterday he had sworn to her—he’d been _so sure_ —that he wouldn’t dare do the very thing he does now, so all she can do is look at the man before her and wonder what could have reduced him to such a state.

And cry.  She could do a little bit of that, too.  But she won’t.

“I’ll break his heart,” she tells him.  “I’ll break his heart.  How can you ever expect me to be happy again if I break his heart?”

And maybe, just maybe, this breaks Scott’s heart a little bit too.  “I want you to be happy,” he says, wiping away a single tear she’d failed to hold back.  “God, all I want is for you to be happy.”

This corset is too tight, Scott’s falling apart right before her eyes, and she can’t breathe.  “Tell me what it is, Scott,” she says.  “Whatever it is, don’t try to do this on your own.”

“I want you to be _happy_ , Penelope,” he says.  “I want you to be happy, and for that reason—”

“Scott, _please_.”

“—you will no longer love him.  Until the _instant_ I die, you will not love Gordon Tracy, and his heartbreak will no longer be your own.”

So Scott says.  So it shall be.

And it’s strange.  So very strange.  Because she knows that they were arguing and she knows what they were arguing about, but every bit of belief that had driven her now dissolves, like steam over a fire.  Inconsequential.  Vanishing from existence.  “What did you do to me?” she asks.

The expression he wears does not match the meaning of his words.  “I saved your life,” he tells her.  “You should—you should go talk to Gordon.”

“Of course,” she says, and when she smiles, Scott looks like he’s just been stabbed, but she can’t help herself.  It is her wedding day and, truthfully, she’s never been happier.  “I’ll go talk to him, and then I’ll see you at sunset.”

He nods.  “I’ll see you at sunset—Penelope?”

“Hmm?”

“You can’t tell him it was me,” he says.  “You won’t tell him it was me.”

She smiles once more, hitches up the miles of dress, and starts towards the door.  “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” she says.

This corset, she thinks, fits just right.  She’s about to be married.  She can finally, finally breathe again.


	41. A Loss of Three Years

It’s true what they say, about being in it together.  

All these years he had just thought it to be a sentiment that belonged in one of John’s books, but he’s since gotten a little older.  A little smarter.  A little more aware of the fact that jokes aren’t any fun unless someone laughs.  It makes a difference, having someone at his side.  Trips into shore are easier when he knows that there’s someone waiting for him, and the curse is so much lighter when his shoulders aren’t the only ones to bear it.

It’s true what they say, about being in it together, which might be why he’s so outrageously relieved when the second half of his _together_ walks onto his ship.

White.  Head to toe, hand to hand, all of his favorite curves wrapped up in piles of soft, intricate white.  The bulk of her skirt hangs over her arm and when she lets it fall—white satin draped over white stockings—he wonders if he’s staring at the ghost of what could have been.  “Penelope,” he says.  “You’re—I was told you were… he found you.”

And it’s not uncommon for him to stammer in her presence.  She isn’t the first woman to leave a speechwriter speechless, but she’s the only one who can make him do it.  She’s the only one who ever feels so present, so immediate, so _strong_ that suddenly every word he knows becomes about her—exclusively her—and the words get all tangled up somewhere between his heart and his tongue.

The fact that Scott ever lost her in the first place is something that Gordon can’t understand, because it’s not easy to lose Penelope.  Not for him.  Penelope is the gravity that pulls him straight from the branches.  She’s the push of wind in his sails, a glance he can’t help but steal, a constant _there_ he can’t ignore—and he _knows_.  He knows that sometimes she runs and sometimes she hides and sometimes she leaves everything behind with a swift and certain absence.  He knows that if Penelope doesn’t _want_ to be found then it is guaranteed that she _won’t_ be found, but that’s just it.  That’s exactly what makes her so hard to lose.

Because Penelope always wants to be found.

“I didn’t know I was lost,” she says.

His laugh comes out as a single huff, squeezing him deep down in his chest, and he knows that she isn’t trying to be funny, but he can’t stop himself anyways.  He isn’t sure why.  “No,” he says.  “No, of course not.  You’re never lost, are you—you look beautiful by the way.  Is everything okay?  Are you okay?  How are you doing?”

There’s a part of him, plagued with burdens such as hope and fantasy, that thinks this is it.  This is the moment.  She’s finally come to her senses and realized that it’s him—that the two of them were meant to be and that Scott can have anyone he wants, so long as it isn’t her.  Clearly she’s run from the palace with adventure in her eye, just like they do in the stories, and any moment now she’s going to tell him to sail away with her, off into the very sunset that was going to damn any chance they ever had.

But no.  No, of course not.  “Do tone the dramatics down a bit,” she says.  It’s a bit blunt even by her standards, but he chalks it up to wedding stress.  And queen stress.  And a-vengeful-king-is-somewhere-on-the-island stress.  She’s had a stressful day.  “I’m getting married, not dying.  Let’s try to keep things in perspective.”

A prince faces a bride.  The sun inches towards the horizon.  The promise of a wedding hangs in the air, thick as the stench of the salt that soaks into his pillows and his clothes and every last board of his ship.  He can’t shake it, because he’s got a sheet of parchment in his hand and it’s got Scott’s name where his own should be.  “Right.  Wedding.  I, uh—”

He takes a step closer to his brother’s bride, then another and one more.  She doesn’t react, and he _gets_ it.  He does.  They can’t do this anymore.  They can’t be this close.  He’s no longer allowed to see the diamonds in her eyes, or the rose in her cheeks, but maybe just… _once_.  One last time.  Maybe they can just have these final moments together.  This will all be easier if they’re just  _together_. “Your vows,” he says, slipping the parchment into her palm.  “I just added, um, a few notes.”

The way she looks at him now is a reminder that none of her white is meant for him.  “There’s a conversation we need to have.”

Instinct drives his thoughts back into dangerous territory, because maybe _this_ is the moment.  She’ll sit him down and they’ll talk about all the pros and cons until they finally come to the conclusion that they need to leave, and leave now, if they ever want to be happy again.  Granted, it’s not exactly the spur-of-the-moment, I-can’t-live-without-you revelation he had been holding out for, but alright.  Okay.  As long as it ends with her in his arms, he doesn’t really care how they get there.

But no.  No, of course not.  She’s marrying Scott.  The fact that she stands before him in an actual wedding dress proves that much.  

Which means this is _that_ conversation.  The other one.  “Oh,” he says, and then he’s back, one step, two steps, three, until there’s a perfectly diplomatic distance between them once more.  “ _Oh_.”

“Indeed,” she says, and there’s that edge in her voice again.  He’s heard her use it with tradesmen and dignitaries and once with her father, but it’s been a very long time since she’s spoken to Gordon with anything less than whimsical dreams of _what if._ “Obviously we can’t carry on as we have in the past.”

“Well no—”

“Good, then we are in agreement.”

Well, he wouldn’t exactly call it an _agreement_.  Agreements tend to be determined together _._ “Now hold on, Pen.  I don’t think—”

“I don’t love you.”

And—silly him—he actually thinks that this is some kind of twist of her words. He actually holds out hope for long enough that he’s able to convince himself that she just hasn’t finished her thought, that there’s more to be said, that her words are just  _incomplete_.

But no.  No, of course not.  Nothing about Penelope is ever incomplete.  “Come again?” he says, because the opposite of what she’s just said has been true for so long that now he’s sure that he’s just misheard her.

“I don’t love you,” she says again, just as firm as the first time.  “And I know you think that I do, but you are mistaken.  I do not love you now and I never have.”

He shakes his head, not out of refusal, but out of confusion.  Is he sick?  Is she?  “What are you—?”

“None of it was true,” she says and jesus christ it’s like watching a cleaver come down to a chopping block.  On the menu tonight: three years.  Three years of waking up beside her.  Three years of setting off to sea and missing her as much as she had missed him.  Three years of being together.  “I was manipulating you in order to receive international goods at little to no cost to me.  Now that I will be your queen, there is no longer a need.”

He laughs.  It’s not funny, but he laughs anyways.  Why does he keep doing that?  “C’mon, Pen.  Knock it off.”

“Every moment we spent together, every conversation—”

“Okay, that’s really enough”

“—every last time I said I loved you, it was just a way for me to—”

“Penelope, _stop_.  This isn’t funny.”

“That’s because it isn’t a _joke_ , Captain.”  He sees only her wedding dress now, how it sways and scratches like a winter storm.  The lace curls up and around her arms like snowflakes, her veil dripping down her hair like icicles, and a shiver splices Gordon’s spine.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to get to.”

But he can’t help it.  And he really should be able to—really should know better than to reach out and grab the wrist of a princess—and yet here they are, his grip on her unrelenting and her glare at him equally merciless.  “Wait,” he says.  “Just—just _hold on_.  What the hell is going on?”  He’s never noticed the way his hand fits on her hip, never noticed the way she’s just the right height.  Not until now.  Not until every little move he makes feels forbidden.  “I know we can’t—we can’t keep going, but to say you _never_ loved me?  That’s just not—it’s not true.”

She doesn’t answer.  Her chin is high and stubborn, just the same as it’s always been and so he holds it under his thumb, presses his forehead to hers.  “It’s not true, Pen.  I won’t believe it.”  Her eyes are still diamonds, even though he’s not supposed to notice.  “Apples and angels, remember?  Don’t go falling on me now.”

Then again, maybe they’re not diamonds.  Maybe those are ice, too.  “Please take a step back, Prince Gordon.”

“Don’t—”  He complies, but it’s a great big unhappy stomp away from her.  “Don’t _talk_ to me like that.  Please.  Please Pen, don’t do that.  Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Talk to you like what?”

“Like you don’t _care_ , Pen.”

A prince faces a bride.  The sun is even closer to the horizon.  The promise of a wedding hangs thick in the air, as inevitable as the salt on the sea.  “I think that perhaps you should call me by my title, Captain.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“ _Jesus_ —” And he wonders.  Wonders how this could have happened.  Wonders how all those late night talks about John or the far-off letters towards shore or anything about Princess Penelope Creighton-Ward could have been a lie.  It’s goddamn impossible.  It’s goddamn ridiculous.  It’s some kind of spell or a curse or—

It’s Scott.

“Did he do this?” asks Gordon.  “Is this Scott?”

She doesn’t answer, but she almost looks like she wants to and if there’s anyone who understands the way Scott’s curse twists and tugs at a person’s tongue, it’s Gordon.  “I’ll kill him.”

There’s only one way to get from here to Scott and it includes setting foot on dry land, but Gordon could not possibly care any less about Scott Tracy’s goddamn curse.  This is the final straw, and if this rage and this heartbreak and— _oh god,_ Penelope really doesn’t love him anymore—if this isn’t enough to break the damn curse, then he doesn’t want to live out the rest of his sentence knowing that there’s no way out.

He charges the doors to his cabin with every intent to leave, but there’s a firm hand on his shoulder before he makes it very far.  “Stop,” she says, voice low.  Impossibly soft once more.  “You’ll turn to sea foam.”

“Then _let me_ ,” he barks, tearing himself away.  “He has taken _everything_ away from me.”

“Well he hasn’t take your life,” she hisses.  “So perhaps you should at least be grateful for that.”  Gordon’s struck by the idea that somehow avoiding murder has become a commendable favor.  If Penelope shares these thoughts, she doesn’t show it.  “Goodbye, Prince Gordon.  I don’t imagine we’ll be seeing each other again.”

“But—”

“ _Goodbye_.”

And just like that, they’re not together anymore.

Gordon takes a seat at his desk, starting off on the last of the wine that he’d poured for her father just a day before.  He doesn’t dirty a glass—doesn’t bother.  He knows he’s going to finish it, maybe even in record time.  He’s earned a drink.  He goddamn _needs_ a drink.

The doors to his cabin open again and for a moment he thinks it must be her—that she’s back, and she’s sorry, and sure it was a pretty cruel joke, but he’ll learn to forgive her in time as long as they can just sail away.  Sail as far away from Scott as they possibly can and live happily ever after.

But no.  No, of course not.  “Captain?” says the first mate, and Gordon takes another swig the the obscenely expensive wine.  Fit for a king, so why Gordon’s drinking it, he isn’t sure.  He’ll never be king.  He’ll never be anything, so long as Scott’s still around.  So long as he’s got this curse tied around his throat.  “I saw the princess runnin’ by.  Was wonderin’ if everything was—”

“Do you really think you died, Parker?”  His first mate is a loyal fellow, and Gordon will always wonder if that much is in Parker’s nature or if it is just how he treats the men who have saved his life.  “When you went overboard.  When you tell the story to the crew, I always hear you say that you died and came back.  Do you really think that?”

Parker smiles, like the whole thing is more of a memory than it is a dream.  “Me own father booted me back down ‘imself.  Said he wasn’t ready to spend the rest of eternity with this ugly mug.”

Gordon nods, thoughtfully, and the truth is that this will be the thing he thinks about most until the sun sets.  He takes another drink, earning something of a _look_ from Parker, until eventually he wipes his lip clean and acts as the captain he’s supposed to be.  “You should go fight,” he says.  “Rest of the crew’s already off the ship.  You should join them.  They’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

Parker looks at the bottle again.  Then back at Gordon.  “You’re in a bit of a state, Captain.  I don’t think—”

“You’re the only one out there who cares about her more than I do,” he tells the old man, and he knows it’s the truth.  The way Parker smiles at the Princess is enough to remind Gordon that she was already a well-loved young lady long before he stumbled into her life.  “ _Please_.  Make sure… I don’t know.  Make sure someone can find her.”

“Is she lost, Captain?”

For the last time that night, Gordon laughs, and this time it really is funny.  Lost.  Maybe she is.  Or maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.  Maybe Gordon’s the one who’s lost.  It certainly feels that way.

“You could fight, you know,” says Parker.  “Leave your ship, after all these years?”

Another drink.  “Oh, how I wish I could,” he says, because Gordon’s itching for a fight—one fight, in particular, but he knows he’ll never get it.  “Please, Parker.  Leave me be.  Go fight the fights which I cannot.”

After a nod and a decent show of hesitation, Parker leaves the same as she had.  The doors do not open for a third time.  There is no one left to enter his cabin.

For the first time in his life, Gordon finds himself completely and utterly alone.


	42. The Fate of Wedding Days

“So, you’re telling me that you were a wolf this _whole time_?”

“Yeah, let’s just shout that out to a crowd of people, Alan,” says Virgil.  “That’s a great way to start a damn mob.”

Not that they’d believe him.  No one ever believes Alan, except there’s something different about the youngest Tracy brother.  Virgil isn’t sure what and he isn’t sure how, but suddenly Alan’s not talking crazy anymore.  Suddenly the things he says make sense in a way they never used to before and Virgil thinks that maybe the treatments have finally started to pay off.  That’s good.  That’s really good.  He doesn’t have time to be happy about that right now, but he will later.

For now, he’s more worried about the fact that they’re squeezing through two kingdom’s worth of people who won’t take kindly to either living under or marrying into a kingdom that, however partially, belongs to a wolf.  Clearly all those years in his room have not done much for Alan’s understanding of basic politics or his appreciation for royal discretion.  “Sorry,” he says.  “Sorry, it’s just.  You were a _you-know-what_  and none of us knew?”

“Well, actually, John knew.  Sort of.”

“John doesn’t count,” says Alan.  “John knows everything.”

Virgil doesn’t know when Alan last spoke to John, but he imagines that this particular observation comes from a place of starry nights spent together in the hills, rather than the dark dusty corner of the library.  Ironically, John seemed to know far more before he was stuffed in between piles of books.  “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, Alan.  As far as I know, none of you figured it out, but it’s not exactly surprising.  It hasn’t been going on for very long.”

“How long _has_ it been going on?” asks Alan, barely squeezing by an older woman in a great big traditional gown.

Virgil shrugs, sliding past a vase of white flowers.  “Couple months after Dad,” he says.  “I told Scott that we couldn’t keep searching and that we had to start thinking about who would take the throne—you know how he is.  He doesn’t think, he just _does_.  Sometimes you’ve got to pop his bubble, smack him in the face a little bit and he’ll come around.”

In front of them both, Kayo shakes her head, not bothering to squeeze by anyone and instead choosing to shove.  “This prince is not fit to be king.”

“Easy there, Princess,” says Virgil.  “He’s an acquired taste, but he’s not unfit.  Scott’s been responsible for some of our best community programs and he makes sure everyone’s got bread on their table.”

“He’s also responsible for the decimation of your family.”

“We’re all a little responsible for that,” says Virgil, but Kayo is unconvinced.   She tosses a glance over her shoulder and Virgil cracks.  “Okay, so, some more than others.”

“But the _wolf_ ,” Alan cuts in.  “You still haven’t explained why you’re… y’know.”

Virgil’s never seen the beach so dressed up.  Not for the funerals, not for the birthdays, not for anything.  It’s beautiful, really, but Virgil can’t quite see it.  All he can see is the face of his oldest brother after he had called off the search.  “I told him I wouldn’t take my men out to the forest anymore—that he was free to keep looking with his team, but mine had families to get home to and it was time to stop looking.  Needless to say, he didn’t take it very well.”

“So he turned you into a wolf?” says Alan, but it’s clear that he doesn’t think that’s the likely scenario at all.  

Virgil just rolls his eyes.  “No.  He told me I had to search, that our father would search for us if roles were reversed.  Told me that I was to search every inch of the forest until I found him.”

There’s a pause, like Alan doesn’t quite want to make himself out to be an idiot for a third time, but apparently he can’t help it.  “And that made you a wolf?”

“Would you _quit_  saying that?” Virgil snaps.  “No.  It didn’t directly bring on my current condition, but it did force me to stray from the safe path, which is where I was bitten.”

There’s a great long “ _Oh_ ,” from Alan as the final piece of the puzzle clicks into place.  “So it’s not really Scott’s fault, but it’s still— _whoa_.  What are you doing?”

Kayo’s grabbed Alan’s wrist again and started pulling him through the crowd.  “There’s an opening,” she says.  “This way.  We’ll get a better view of the ceremony.”

“Man, you are, like, _really_ strong.”

“Spend your life in a reflection and we’ll see how many pushups you do,” she says.  “I can guarantee you that whatever move my uncle plans to make, he’s going to make it from up there.”

Both Alan and Virgil turn towards the marble staircase.  It, like everything else, is a bright, shining white.  The steps glow pink with the threat of sunset and Virgil has a real bad feeling about this.

“No offense,” says Alan.  “But your uncle is kind of the worst.”

“None taken,” she says.  “I’ve been waiting years to slit his throat and now’s my chance to finally do it.”

They look at each other.  They look at Kayo.  Then, finally, both Alan and Virgil take one sturdy step _back_.

“And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?” Alan wonders.  “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you can really walk up to and, um, _slit_.”

“He is if you have the Sword of Lover’s Star.”

She turns towards him now or, more specifically, towards the sword he holds on his left hip.  “Oh,” he says.  “Oh, well, good.  I have that.”

“And what about this whole _sky_  deal?” asks Virgil.  “Do you know what’s going to happen once you remove him from that particular equation?”

A beat.  She doesn’t look at him.  “I’m still working on that part,” she says.  “But I think I need to get my hands on the oracle stone.”

“And where is that?”

“Where do you think it is?”

“In the staff?” Alan offers.

“Isn’t it always?” Kayo answers.  “We get that and I think I might be able to harness the power somehow.  The hardest part will be getting past that damn snake of his.”

“Okay,” Virgil says.  “So.  Alan, you stay with Kayo and give her the sword when she needs it.  I’ll work on getting the stone.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Alan.  “Where are you going?”

Virgil shrugs, two hands up, with a smile that Alan hasn’t seen in years.  “Someone’s got to be the best man,” he says.  “I’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Kayo gives a firm nod, and Virgil appreciates someone who can appreciate forwardness.  He gives her a nod back, and then makes his way through the crowd alone.  He can feel the wolf somewhere inside of him, protesting the idea of leaving, but it’s not taking over.  They trust each other somehow, Virgil and the wolf, so the usual fear is replaced by empowerment, and he’s twice the man he used to be.

That’s when he starts to hear the whispers.

“… in the kitchen said she saw him bolting through the hallways…”

He doesn’t know where it comes from, isn’t even sure what’s being said, but he does notice it.  Can’t help but notice it.  “… heard that he was trying to stop the wedding from happening…”

And as he shoulders his way through townspeople, all of the dressed up in the finest clothes—some of them even dressed up in his mother’s old gowns—he gets to wondering what ever happened to John and if Gaat bothered to leave him alive.

“… always knew he was in love with her…”

And that’s when the choir starts to sing.


	43. The Call of Mother's Son

It’s his mother’s song.

Melchior has a handful of lullabies that are exclusive to the island.  Some are born of workers in the shops or children lost to the forest.  Others have their roots in the seasons, the sky, the sea.  They’re rich, powerful, nonsensical little things that seem to float through the air, waiting for someone to catch them with a hum or a whistle, but  _this_  song?   _This_ song has been locked behind palace walls as long as John himself has.

He played it just yesterday, on a violin that was not his mother’s as they sent the boats to sea.  Now, a chorus sings it at a wedding that cannot be allowed to go on.  The older he gets, the less of a lullaby this song becomes.  Instead it becomes an omen, note by note, line by line, of all the things John doesn’t want to see.  It is no longer a song of sleep, but is instead a song of death.

Child of mine, child of mine,   
who sleeps beneath the moon;  
I hold you now, my little one,  
but you will leave me soon.

For child of mine, oh child of mine,  
though now you are so small;  
a sword will pierce you through and through,  
for true love conquers all. 

He can hear her voice—what he can remember of it anyways, although it’s hard to forget.  Especially with that song.  The versus are faded, full of fairies and wolves and all the words he’s forgotten, but the _refrain_.  Sometimes he swears her very ghost is in his ear, singing that refrain.

And so he follows his mother, follows the sound of her voice as he trips his way through a palace he can no longer remember.  He feels like a toddler again, holding his mother’s hand, waiting for her to guide him, but his mother isn’t here and too many years have passed him by and all he can do is follow her song.

_Child of mine, child of mine_

He remembers her saying those _exact words_ , remembers sharing his chambers with Scott, remembers all the nights she had to sing him to sleep, or else leave him to face all the ghastly creatures the night was sure to bring.  He remembers her, and he misses her, and he follows her voice without hesitation, through the hallways, past the pillars, through the doors until—

Wind.

This is what wind feels like.

God, has he ever missed the wind and maybe the wind has even missed him right back, because it leaves curls along his skin until he has goosebumps, runs its fingers through his hair, leaves him breathless with a kiss of salt.  It whispers in his ear and tells him that he’s free.  He’s finally, finally free.  All at once he understands his brother’s call to the sea, because wind is quite the persuasive mistress.

Gordon.  He can finally see Gordon—except no.  No he can’t.  There’s something he needs to do and—wow.  Oh wow, this is a lot of people.  The last time he was around this many people, it was Alan’s very first birthday.

Alan.  Where is Alan?  Is he safe?  Is he sane?  Does he still look at the stars—the _stars_.  John can finally see his stars again and suddenly he can’t wait for sunset.

_who sleeps beneath the moon_

No.  Sunset.  Something about sunset.  Why are there so many people here and why can’t he think straight and—

There’s a tug on his hair.  It’s a frantic turn towards the little white fairy who stands on his shoulder and he’s glad that at least that much hasn’t changed.  “What?  What is it?”

She points a tiny finger towards the crowd.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, that’s a lot of people, huh?”

She stomps her foot and points even harder.  John wants to tell her to use her words, but her words are all the way up in that library, wedged between pages and pages of books, so John has to settle for what he’s got.  He follows her finger, watches the crowd for whatever could be causing such alarm in his little friend, and waits.  For what, he isn’t sure, but he waits.

And he sees it.

He isn’t sure where—isn’t sure when, but between one blink and the next, he spots a man wearing a shimmering hood.  He’s here.  He’s really, truly here, and John needs to find him.  John needs to stop this prophesy before it can even start.

He bolts through the crowd, everyone dressed in their finest clothing while he, the prince, doesn’t even wear his crown and hasn’t had a good wash in… two days?  Three?  Doesn’t matter.  When he’s done here, he’s going to run straight into that ocean and— _god_.  Where is Gaat?

_I hold you now, my little one_

He wishes his mother were here—wishes she was more than just a memory in a song—because she always knew how to handle Gaat.  He’s heard the stories.  He’s read the books.  Their father was the master negotiator when it came to Kingdom Caspar, but Balthazar?  When it came to keeping Gaat in line, it was always their mother.

The choir sings on.  When the doors at the top of the marble staircase open, the entire congregation turns to watch, but John plows through the crowd, facing the wrong direction.  The sun is on the horizon and he either needs to get Gaat, or get everyone else out of here.

He wonders if it was Scott’s choice, to have the wedding party enter during their mother’s song.  He wonders if maybe it was Penelope’s.  Why didn’t John get a choice?  Why does their mother’s memory need to get all tied up in this, when Gaat was the one to kill her, and when he’s likely going to kill again?

 _but you will leave me soon_.

And he stops.  He turns.  Because if Gaat is going to send a knife through someone’s back—then he’s not going to stay in the crowd for very long.

_For child of mine, oh child of mine_

What would his mother do?  How did she always know where to find him?  EOS is still on his shoulder, pointing and stomping in a way that only a fairy can, but he can’t find Gaat.  He can’t find him.  He can’t find _anything_.

_though now you are so small_

Two kingdoms’ worth of people surround him.  The wind is at his back and he looks up at the castle, sitting at the top of the tallest cliff, thinking that it’s a lot of stairs to the top.  How long would it take?  Could he outrun Gaat?

_a sword will pierce you through and through_

“John?”

It’s not his mother’s voice, but it’s familiar all the same.  It takes him a moment to place it, because it doesn’t sound quite right, but then he turns and spots Alan.  There’s disbelief in his expression, as if Alan has any right to hold disbelief, but then John feels the wind again and he remembers that maybe this time he’s is the one who can’t be believed.

The kid has a sword on his side and John wonders just how long he’s been stuck up in that castle tower.  “John,” he says again.  “What are you—?”

“ _Alan_.”

And that’s a girl.  Alan has a sword and a girl.  John’s missed so many years.

She grabs Alan’s wrist, pulls him forward through the crowd, and just like that John’s youngest brother is gone again.  The pair of them race towards that grand staircase, race towards the ceremony.

Race towards the man in the starlight hood, standing at the base of the steps.

It’s another blink, and Gaat is gone once more, but no one else seems to notice.  And why would they?  There’s a princess at the top of the stairs now, all dressed up in white.  The sunset turns her to gold and there’s a moment when John is really, truly _stuck_  by the sight of his best friend in a wedding gown.

And he knows.  He knows that Gaat is somewhere and that no one is safe and that something has to stop this wedding, but he doesn’t know what to do.  He doesn’t know what his mother would do.  Step by step, Penelope descends the staircase, flowers in hand, a smile on her lips, an absolutely stunning example of the perfect bride, and he doesn’t know how he can stop this from happening.

Unless _he_  can stop it from happening.  John’s been in that library for years.  He’s not sure the world remembers how it’s supposed to work when he’s on the outside and it occurs to him that he doesn’t need to _do_ anything.  He just needs to _be_.

It is not his brother’s name that falls onto his lips.  Maybe it should be.  Maybe he is supposed to care more for his brother than he does for his best friend, but that simply isn’t the case.  This name belongs to her—to the young lady who spent too much of her life in the library, who spent too many nights at his side, who spent too many hours caught up in the branches of that damn tree.

_for true love conquers all._

“Penelope!”


	44. A Halt to Wedding Vows

There are two crowns sitting on display exactly thirty steps below her.  One is bold and strong, made up of blue velvet and sturdy silver.  The other is thin and intricate, a web of diamonds spun into a towering tiara.  Both are polished, both are shining under sunset, both are meant to announce—officially—that she and Scott will rule this kingdom together.

And, well, that thought doesn’t break her heart.

She knows it should.  She knows that there’s something, somewhere, someone that would make this harder, except that there isn’t.  This is her choice.  This is her future.  She’s finally, _finally_ ready for it.

She’s heard this song before, twinkling away in the little music box that John keeps in his library.  The notes bring with them all of the memories she has in this kingdom, the majority of which are coated in soot and the smell of parchment, and she wishes he were here.  That John were standing beside her in the way that Virgil now stands beside Scott.  She’s terrified and she’s ecstatic and she wishes for John so much that she can almost hear him calling her name.

Except, hold on.  “ _Penelope_.  Penelope, don’t do this.”

She’s never seen such a large crowd part so quickly.  She’s never heard a full choir stop so abruptly.  She wonders, briefly, if she’s under attack, until she sees the bright red hair and realizes that, no, in fact she is just losing her mind.  “John?”

There are murmurs in the congregation, rumors flying like doves.   It’s a story that could top any other, a prince interrupting his brother’s wedding for the sake of a childhood love.  In a kingdom long known for its scandal with marriage, the people already seem prepared for the incident.  Along the edge of the crowd, two men exchange a significant sum of coins as a woman calls out to him.  “Don’t do it, Prince John!”

John turns to the woman, squints, then shakes his head and starts up the stairs.  “Listen to me,” he huffs.  “Oh wow.  I have severely underestimated the number of stairs—listen.  You can’t do this.  You can’t say your vows.”

She knows what this looks like.  Everyone in the kingdom knows what this looks like, except there’s a fundemental problem with the image before her.  The pair of them do, at their very cores, love one another, but she is absolutely certain that neither she nor John is _in_ love with the other, and so she doesn’t hesitate.  She doesn’t care what it appears to be.  She simply makes her way down to him, one careful step at a time, past Scott, past the pair of crowns, until she has her arms wrapped around him and she knows that he’s real.  He’s real and he’s here and he’s not in that damn library any longer.  “ _John_.”

“Hi—oh, hey.  Yeah.  Hi,” he sputters, and he doesn’t seem to know where to put his arms.  “Listen.  Very important, here—”

She pulls away.  Her grip is firm on his arms, for risk of him turning to dust and losing him to the library once more.  “What are you doing?  Are you really here?  How did you get out of the library?”

“Well.  In order?  I’m stopping this wedding, I think so, and Gaat killed my mother.”  The words are abrupt at first, factual, until he actually hears what he’s just said.  John Tracy doesn’t panic, but this moment might just be the closest she’s ever seen.  “Penelope—Penelope, listen.  It’s Gaat.”  He looks up at Scott who, at this point, has made his own way down the wide steps.  “ _Gaat_ killed her.  He killed her to get himself closer to our throne and I think he’s going to—”

It’s a flash of stardust, soundless if not for the collective gasp of the crowd below.  It’s magical, unquestionable sorcery that sends John’s little fairy into a fantastic frenzy.  It’s Gaat, beaten and bruised, with a snarl aimed at the second born prince of Melchior.  “ _You_ ,” he hisses, “are supposed to be _dead!_ ”

John spins on the King and it doesn’t escape her notice that not one, not two, but _three_ princes now surround her.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” says John.  “Is my being alive an inconvenience to you?  Condolences.  I know the feeling.”

“Do not play games, boy.”

“No games, Gaat.”  John’s words squeeze through gritted teeth.  “Do you know what happens when you spend _over a decade_  in a library?  You _read_.  You read every book on the shelf and then you read them all again.  You read the fantasies of international authors, the lore of the fairy world, the history of malicious Kings who seek to govern unfairly.  I _know_  your game, and I won’t play it.  The prophesy states that you can’t take the three kingdoms if these two don’t say their vows.”

Scott looks like he’s about to go tumbling any second now.  “Prophesy?  John, what—?”

Except he doesn’t get to finish.  He’s interrupted by a cry from Gaat, vicious and determined, as he raises a hand to John.  She hears the crowd start to scream, hears John take a breath in, and she knows that there’s no time to think.  No time to plan.  She pulls Scott’s sword from his hip and points it at Gaat in one swift swing.

Gaat freezes.  In that single moment, the entire kingdom seems to ice over.  “If you touch one hair on his head, I will personally drive this sword through your heart.”

And then, Gaat smiles.  “Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.  What is it they say?  About boys marrying their mothers?”

“Step _back_ , Your Majesty,” she says.  

She offers another jab at him, sending him down one of the steps, but Gaat looks as though he’s had quite enough of this.  Her stomach turns when the old king turns his attention to Scott.  “You have a rather large audience here, Prince Scott.  Wouldn’t it be a shame if something were to slip out during this little”—he eyes the blade—“ _discussion_  we’re having?”

Scott’s jaw clenches.  His skin turns red as a rose before he says, “Penelope.  Sword down.”

Without her consent, her hands are thrown open and the blade rings against marble.  One second passes, two, before John spins on Scott.  “What are you doing?”

“Trying to keep my damn family alive, John,” he growls.  “He knows about the curse.  He knows about—”  Scott stops himself with a single guilty glance at Penelope.  “He could ruin us.  There’d be riots.  You’d be hanged before you even got to see the moon.”

“I told you _not_ to curse her,” says John.  “She’s trusting you.  You don’t get to decide—”

“John, darling,” she says, stepping between the two of them.  “Not now.”

“Yes now,” John says.  “Yes.  He doesn’t get to do this.  I lost _so many years_ and he doesn’t get to do the same thing to you.”

“Well it’s a little late to be discussing this,” she says.  “So please.  You have more pressing matters at the moment.”

And it’s like the world is moving too quickly for him—like all those years in his tower have turned his seconds into hours and his minutes into days.  He studies her for a long, focused moment until, “Too late?”  He looks at Scott.  “ _Too late_?  What did you do?  Scott, I swear—”

He barrels past her.  Before she can pull him back, Scott’s wedding garb is balled up into John’s fists and Scott himself is backed into the tall marble railing of the stairs.  “What did you do?”

Scott shoves him back, and John hasn’t gotten quite lost his library legs yet.  “You know what, John?” says Scott.  “The second you have to rule an entire kingdom, you can come talk to me about the choices I make.”

“This kingdom is better off without you at its head,” John snarls.

And then, Gaat.

“Well, this has been fun, gentleman,” he says.  He pulls his hood over his head, but before anyone can make a move, the man is vanishing, one shimmering thread at a time.  “I’ll leave you to sort this out, but no worries.  You haven’t seen the last of me.  If you think I need those vows to take your crown, then you’ve no idea just how weak your weakest link is, but trust me when I say, Prince Scott, that you will have wished that you had followed my advice the first time around.  Plan B is not your preferred option.”


	45. A Deal with a Crownless Prince

The legend of the fourth Melchior prince has traveled even father than the prince himself has, for it is simply impossible to ignore the tales of this brave Captain, this noble fighter, this great gentleman of the water whose heart swells like the sea. They say he’s travelled the world three times over—say he’s made every stop there is to make.  They say that if he were to drink each drop of water that his ship has ever touched, the world would be little more than desert.  The stories are enchanting.  The boy at their center is charming, and he’s determined, and he’s never lost a man at sea.

There’s a faint, eerie whistle of notes that sound out of tune, but feel like they’re in the right place.  Slow and sloppy, something about yo hos and rum, coming from the ship’s sole passenger.  It floats on the wind, swirling through a soft pink sunset that grows darker by the second, and King Gaat knows that the best possibly thing Prince Gordon could be is alone.  “So it’s a pirate’s life for you then, is it?”

The young prince rolls into view, clearly startled as he wobbles down the steps to his main deck.  He doesn’t expect anyone to be on his ship, and he certainly doesn’t expect the sight he sees.  It’s a long, lingering squint before he finally says, “John?”

Judging by the stumble in his step and the half-empty bottle in his right hand, Gaat doesn’t even need a spell to confuse Gordon, but he’s already thieved the second born’s crown.  May as well put it to some use, now that the redhead has proven himself throughly _alive_ in front of the entire congregation.  How inconsiderate.  “Let me guess.  A mile away from shore, flags lowered.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re stealing your own ship,” says Gaat, but it will be his brother’s voice that the young prince hears.  “Off to gallivant across the world—growing a beard, wearing an eye patch, running away from all of life’s worries.”

The prince eyes his bottle like maybe it’s a bit more sour than he had originally thought.  “S’not really you though, is it?” he says.  “This is me.  This is a dream?”

“Does it matter if it’s a dream or not?” asks Gaat.  “Tell me, Gordon.  What are you running from?  What is it you _want_?”

“Crissake, Johnny.  You already know what I want.”  He takes another swig of his drink, swallows a hiccup.  “Glad you finally get to see the ship though—s’a nice ship, right?  My favorite ship.  Best one outta all seven—fastest, biggest, strongest.  It’s got these little golden latches for the rope.  I love this ship.  And this ship loves me, and we’re never gonna stop lovin’ each other, Johnny.  That’s important.”

This is precisely why Prince Gordon was plan B.  Heartbreak is a messy thing and people inflicted with such inconvenience are generally unpleasant to deal with.  Best get this done as soon as possible.  “Lovely ship,” he agrees.  “Lovely.  I do wonder though, if it resists fire as well as you resist truth.”

“…what?”

The stone in King Gaat’s scepter is capable of a great deal of magic.  For centuries, it has been used to place bets and predict policies.  It has been used to keep kings young and to trap princesses in time.  It can retell stories of the past and it can project prophesies of the future, and so maybe it is not capable of actually lighting the young prince’s ship aflame, but in the end, seeing is believing.

Prince Gordon jumps back.  “ _Shit_.  No, no, _shit_.”  Then he looks up at the man whom he thinks is his brother.  “Hey, Johnny.  C’mon.  C’mere.”

Gaat does not move.

“ _Hey_.  You’re on _fire_ John, c’mon.”

Gaat still does not move.

“Are you—John!  Stop screwing around.”

Glass shatters as the boy’s bottle lands against the deck.  The sting of a strong drink outweighs the stench of the sea.  Gaat can only imagine the sort of horror that plays out before Prince Gordon’s eyes, but if his expression is any indication, John is dead already, or about to be.  He watches in amusement as the young captain searches for a bucket, but he doesn’t get very far before the stone in Gaat’s scepter stops glowing.  Before he strips himself of John Tracy’s crown and Gordon is forced to come face-to-face with reality.

He startles again.  As he probably should.  Moments ago, his ship had been on fire and his brother had stood where a king stands now.  “ _Gaat,”_ he snarls.  “God, should’ve—should’ve known.  That was a perfectly good bottle of rum you made me drop.”

The corner of Gaat’s lips tick into a sly smile.  “I was doing you a favor,” he says.  “Not to mention that a spilled bottle is the least of your worries at the moment—I have a deal for you, Prince Gordon.  And by deal, I mean that I am going to hold your ship hostage.”

He scoffs.  “Well your honesty is much appreciated, Your Majesty.”

Ahh.  A tongue as sharp as his mother’s.  Not as drunk as he seems.  Noted.  “Really, boy.  If you—”

“I am a prince, Majesty, need I remind you,” he says.  “If you’re gonna negotiate with me—unfairly, no less—while I’m halfway to unconsciousness, I must insist you address me so.”  He pauses.  Ponders.  “Address me so?”

Gaat rolls his eyes.  “Address you _as such_.”

“That’s it, thank you,” he says.  “Address me as such.  I must insist that you address me as such.  Or, y’know, at least call me Captain.  S’what everyone else does.”

So far in his encounters with the princes, the first and last remind Gaat most of their father.  The second and third remind him of their mother.  But the fourth prince of Melchior might just be an even split.  “Very well, _Captain_ ,” he says.  “Should I make my proposal now, or shall I wait until your comfortable?”

“Now’s fine.”

“Oh, good.”  And, like his parents, Prince Gordon is the sort of insufferable that is hard to talk over top of.  Still.  Gaat manages.  “What you just saw was a projection of the future—your future, to be more specific, if you do not comply with my wishes.”

“Wishes, huh?”

“Your crown,” says Gaat.  “I would like your crown.”

It’s Gordon who smiles this time, from cheek to puffy cheek.  The boy’s eyes are red and his skin is splotchy, but he smiles anyways.  “Tsk, tsk, Your Majesty,” he says.  “Don'you know?  A crown is a terrible thing to want.”

But that is exactly it—Gaat doesn’t just want _a_ crown.  He wants _the_ crown.  He wants all five of them.  For years he’s carried on knowing that someday, somehow, he would rule the three kingdoms and he’s had enough waiting.  He has earned this.  He deserves it.

Because what Prince Gordon does not know is that a crown is a very magical thing.  For those who see the world through magic, a prince’s crown is the sort of thing that pulsates with enchantment.  It’s the sort of object upon which spells are not only cast, but _born_.  Hand-crafted, forged in flame, made from only the purest forms of Earth’s finest metals.  Each one is specially made, specially tailored, and no one is identical.  Not in the entire sky and not across the entire sea.  A prince’s crown is as much of a prince as his very spine.

He has Prince John’s crown, and with a wave of his hand he can take the form of Prince John.  Now, he wants Prince Gordon’s crown.  “If you do not comply, then this ship and everything aboard will burn into sand upon the ocean floor.”

Prince Gordon stares.  He stares for a very long time—so long, in fact, that Gaat begins to wonder just how many drinks the boy has actually had.  But suddenly there’s a shrug, and his eyes are dull.  “Burn it.”

The young man turns and begins to rummage his way through barrels and crates.  Gaat’s not sure he’s heard correctly.  “Excuse me?”

Another shrug.  When a barrel turns up empty, Gordon throws it on it’s side and continues on down the line.  “I said burn it.”

For all his skill with magic, King Gaat genuinely cannot tell if this prince is calling his bluff or if he feels no alarm.  “I promise you that I am not the sort of man to make empty threats.”

“Sure,” says Gordon, reaching down to the bottom of his last barrel.  He pulls up a bottle, unopened.  There’s a _pop_  as the cork flies.  “Just like my crew is not the sort to hide empty bottles—drink, Your Majesty?”

“I am _threatening_ you.”

“I see that,” he says, with a cheer to the sky and a nice long gulp of liquid courage.  “And you’re doing a very good job—one problem though.  I’ve already had my heart ripped out of my chest today, so, y’see, the rest of me doesn’t really mind if we go.”

And of course— _of course_ that’s the answer.  He should have seen it all along.  “Ahh,” he says.  “Princess struggles.”

“The very worst kind of struggles,” Gordon confirms.  

At this point, Gaat wishes that the prince were just wearing his crown.  Then he could make a clean go at it with a simple beheading, but no such luck.  If he wants to take the kingdom, then he has to sit through mountains of melodrama.

“Of course,” says Gordon, “I would be there, on land, fighting for her and all, but you’ve made that a little bit tricky.”  He plops down onto the steps.  Drinks.  Wipes his lip before he says, “Mmm.  Scott, I guess.  Scott made it tricky.”

Gaat can’t believe that it’s really this simple.  He doesn’t even need to shift the blame—the boy already blames his brother.  Only question now is _how much_ , he blames his brother.  Or rather, how much he trusts Gaat.  “I could fix that, you know,” he says.  “What your brother has done to you, I can fix it.”

That gets his attention.  “No you can’t.”

It’s more of a dare than a statement—more of a plea than a fact.  Gordon wants to believe, and that alone may be enough.  “My dear boy, I placed the curse, I may do with it whatever I please—”

“What about Penelope?”

“What _about_ Penelope?”

The boy hangs his head.  When he lifts it again, he’s laughing and Gaat can’t help but feel like he’s missed the joke.  It’s a slow, unstable rise to his feet, but he’s up, and he’s taller, and the legend of Prince Gordon starts to show through the cracks.  “My turn,” he says.

The boards creak beneath his feet as he takes one step, two steps, three steps forward.  He’s far too close for comfort by the time he next speaks.  “It’s all about Penelope.  It’s  _always_ about Penelope.  Scott did somethin’ to her—I know he did—so either you lift the curse from _both_ of us, or this ship and everything aboard, _including_ my crown, will burn into sand upon the ocean floor.”

Not as dull as he looks either.  Also noted.

Gaat cannot, actually, undo the curse that was placed on Kingdom Caspar’s princess.  He’s long ago learned the origins of Prince Gordon’s curse—learned the exact wording used to place him under it—but the same cannot be said for the princess.  That curse is too new and Prince Scott is too unpredictable.  Gaat doesn’t have enough information to undo it.  There are rules to his family’s gift, after all.

He does not, however, plan to tell any of this to Prince Gordon.  Too much of a risk.  “I will undo your curse,” says Gaat.  “And hers.”

“And John’s.”

“Do not push it, young prince.” 

At this, he retreats.  “Fine,” he says.  “Fine.  I can live with that.  Penelope, then me, then the crown.”

“Crown first.”

“Penelope, then me, then the crown.”

“You are a pain in my side,” Gaat spits.  “Very well.”  And the benefit of working with non-magical folk is that they have very little idea of what they are asking for.  It is like watching someone barter with a currency they do not understand.  They’re likely to give far more than they receive, so long as you make enough of a scene.

So he waves his hands.  He chants a spell.  For the first time in years, the prince will be able to leave his ship and for the first time in years, Gaat will have another shot at the Melchior throne.  “There,” he says.  “You and your beloved will now be able to—”

“Lucille.”

“Pardon?”

“My mother’s name was Lucille.”

“…Yes.  I’m aware.”

Gaat’s never seen a boy light up so brilliantly.  “You did it,” he says.  “You really did do it.”

Strange kids, these Tracy boys.  Gullible, too.  “Yes.  I really did.  Now, the crown.”

He’s gone in a flash, like lightning down the steps.  Everything about him is quicker, stronger, more engaged than before.  Gaat waits, not so patiently, as he listens to the bounds down his steps.  He can hear the prince rummaging through his cabin, all of the racket bleeding through the vents.  It’s not long before he’s back up, crown spinning around his first finger.

Gordon grips it before Gaat can even reach out.  “What are you gonna use this for, Your Majesty?” he says.

“Doesn’t much matter, does it?” says Gaat.  “You’ve received your end of the deal.”

He nods, but still, there’s hesitation.  “People gonna get hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re lying, though.”

“Yes.”  And now Gaat sees it.  That heart they all talk about.  How exhausting.  “But you and your beloved will be gone, off to live your life without the burdens of your kingdom.  What have they ever done for you, anyways?  All you have to do is give me that crown.”

More hesitation.  Gordon seems to have caught his own reflection.  He studies it for just a few moments, but eventually he holds it at an arms length.  Closes his eyes.  Gaat grabs it before the boy can draw this out any longer than he already has.  “Good,” he says, pulling his hood over his head.  “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Captain.  Just one more thing.”

There’s a puddle of fallen drink spread across the Prince’s deck.  With a flick of Gaat’s wrist, it ignites—really, truly this time—and Gordon can feel the heat.  The horror returns to his expression as the flame spreads quicker than it can be quenched.  “What the hell are you doing?”

“Can’t have any loose ends,” says Gaat.  His cloak begins to dissolve as the young prince dashes frantically across the deck.  “Consider yourself all tied up.”

And then he leaves it all behind, knowing that the fourth born prince of Melchior will soon be lost to the sea.


	46. The Ship on the Blazing Horizon

“Well, firstly, you’re all complete idiots.”

Scott doesn’t know who says it.  Doesn’t know if he cares.  All he knows at the moment is that John’s alive, and he’s angry, and he’s alive.

John’s alive.  He’s alive, and he’s here.

But if John keeps at it the way he does now, then Scott’s not going to be alive for very much longer.  He’s got his fists balled up around Scott’s collar, red in the face and white in the knuckles.  “You couldn’t even make it _one day_?  Is this a joke?”

“Secondly, stop trying to _kill_ your brother.”  There’s a great gust of wind at Scott’s back, stronger than that of the sea, stronger than anything he’s ever seen blowing the forest trees.  It’s a force far greater than nature and it sends John flying to the other side of the steps.

Scott searches for the source and it crosses his mind—briefly, and with no great deal of commitment—that he’s supposed to be angry.  That he should be _enraged_.  His kid brother is alive, and he’s not in that library, and _something_  is shoving him until he tumbles down one step.  Two.  He should be pissed, should probably draw a sword, but Scott still can’t stop thinking about how John is _alive_.

He’s supposed to be dead.  Thank the stars, he’s alive.

“So you must be the Prince Scott I’ve heard so much about.”  There’s a young woman at his front, standing tall against him.  Alan stands just behind her, looking more like he’s chasing after her than providing any solid backup.  Although, to be honest, the young lady doesn’t look like she needs that much help.  “So far, I’m unimpressed.”

And who is she to speak to him this way?  Who is she to stand among princes? John’s alive.  He’s alive.  “Sorry,” he says.  “Who are you?”

“Unimportant,” she bites.  “You’ve proven yourself incompetent against Gaat, so now I’m stepping in.  You’re going to listen to me from now on, do you understand?  ”

“Now wait just a second—”

“And you,” she says, turning on John.  He’s beginning to stand again, swiping his clothing free of dust and dirt.  “Which one are you?”

“That’s John,” Alan whispers in her ear.  “And, uh, I don’t really know what he’s doing here because he’s _kind of_ been trapped in a tower for, like, forever.”

John’s alive.  He’s alive, and he’s here, and he looks just as confused as the rest of them.

“I don’t know what he’s doing here either,” she says.  “Because it’s _his_ fault that Gaat got away.  Would have been better for everyone if he just stayed up in that tower.”

And it’s Penelope, not Scott, who takes issue with this.  “Excuse me,” she says, twisting and spinning the sword in her palms.  It’s quite a sight, the princess in full wedding dress, handling a sword— _his_ sword—with the sort of grace that only comes with years of training.  “But might I suggest that if you want your lips to remain intact with your face, that they start explaining just who you are and what gives you the right to talk to him that way.”

By _him_ , she means John.  John.  Living, breathing John.  He’s supposed to be dead.  Scott thought he was dead.  Like their mother and their father before him, John had been gone, and Scott had been without the people who have always been there.

The young lady takes those few steps to close the distance between her and the princess.  Her glare is unrelenting, but of the five royal family members standing upon those steps, Penelope might just be the most capable of matching such a heat.  “Listen, Princess—”

“No, _you_ listen,” says Penelope, taking that last step down so that no room remains between them.  She’s taller than the young lady, although Scott’s under the impression that Princess Penelope is always the tallest figure in the room when she wants to be.  “The only reason you aren’t _dead_ yet is because you have a prince escorting you up these steps, so you _will_ explain who you are and you _will_ explain what you’re doing here or else this wedding will soon become a public execution.”

There’s a nice long silence as the young lady continues to glare.  “Sounds like a terrible way to ruin a beautiful white wedding gown.”

Penelope doesn’t yield any more than her opposition.  “We all have to make sacrifices.”

The sword pings as it halts in her hands, frozen.  Frigid.  An icy white blade ready to strike at any moment.  The next move will be a fatal one, unless Princess Penelope receives the information she’s requested.  That much is clear, and so the four princes stand, watching on as the women on the steps make their moves.

Finally, the young woman shows her hand.  It’s a glance at Alan, then a glance at Virgil, then back to Penelope.  “My name is Tanusha Kyrano,” she says, low.  Covert.  “Princess of Kingdom Balthazar.”

There are utterances in the crowd, those at the front just barely able to make out what’s being said and spreading the message back as far as it can go. Younger kids run through the crowd and relay the message for a small fee. Across the steps, Scott sees John’s eyes widen.  

John’s alive.  

And he’s a lit up in a way that Scott hasn’t seen since they were kids.  Since that day John finally got his crown.  “The Lady in the Water,” he whispers with a glance at Virgil.

But Penelope doesn’t look so convinced.  “The Princess of Kingdom Balthazar is dead,” she says.  “Has been for years.  Good try though.”

There’s a half second when the princes, the young lady, and every person in the the crowd all hold their breath, because she might do it.  Penelope’s sword ticks and every soul in sight thinks that she just might end this woman’s life, until John—John, who has only just been brought back to life—steps between the two of them.  “Penelope, wait.”

It’s curious, the way Penelope bends to John’s will.  Scott has spent his entire life watching people give in to involuntary commands and Penelope—well.  It’s almost magical, watching her follow John.  She does it with the sort of fervent desire that feels almost inescapable.  Scott wonders how his brother does it—how he commands without curse.  How he wraps loyalty into these tight little coils of passion that spring out when he most needs them.  

John’s alive.  John’s alive, and he’s breathing, and he holds power in the palm of his hand.  “Just, wait,” he says again, but he doesn’t need to.  He’s got her tied tight, right around his finger.  “I think—I think she’s telling the truth.”

“I’ll second that,” says Virgil.

“Me too,” Alan pipes, jumping in at the end of the action.  “She’s a princess.  Told me so herself.”

Both princesses roll their eyes at this until the younger looks up at the older and says, “Please.  You have to trust me.  This is what he _does_.  He puts the sword in your hands and he gives you a reason to swing, but he’s the only one who wins.”

Penelope already knows the answer, but still she says, “Who?”

“King Gaat will do whatever he can to get what he wants,” she says.  “He will turn princess against princess, brother against brother.  Each of you is a piece in his game.  As far as he’s concerned, you’re disposable, so long as you’ve served your purpose.”

John’s scoff is a pathetic thing, made up of dust and all those years of talking to himself.  “Well it’s not exactly _difficult_ to turn us against one another, when one of the brothers can’t keep himself from somehow ruining the lives of everyone around him.”

John’s alive.  And he’s angry.  And he’s supposed to be angry, Scott knows that much, but he can’t quite remember why.  “What?”

“You heard me,” John spits.  “Tell me, Scott, because I’m curious.  Did you go and ruin Penelope’s life right after I told you not to, or did you wait the full thirty minutes before treading those waters?”

“Easy…” Virgil growls.  “This isn’t the time.”

John’s words don’t quite add up, because Scott’s sure that his brother must know.  John knows everything.  Surely he heard all of Gaat’s threats.  Surely he had known about Gordon and Penelope.  Surely he had been there in the library, like he always was, watching as Scott slowly realized that his brother was dead, and he’d have to send away another boat, and that he couldn’t breathe.  “You were dead, John,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Because if there’s anything that Scott knows, it’s that he couldn’t let it happen again.  First their mother.  Then their father.  Then John.  He couldn’t allow it to happen to anyone else.  Not when he had the power to stop it.  He would not be responsible for any more death.  

John, apparently, doesn’t see it the same way.  “So you thought that—what—I wouldn’t  _follow through_  on my threat to kill you?  Because I assure you, big brother, that I would have haunted your ass _so throughly_ —”

“ _No_ ,” says Scott, because it’s so rare that John doesn’t understand something. “You were  _dead_ , John.  I thought—I thought you were dead.  Don’t you get it?  You’re there.  You’re supposed to be there—you’ve always been there.  I don’t remember a time without you and then you just… weren’t.  And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if you’re not there and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if I have to tell the rest of them—if I have to announce that you’re _dead_.  You were dead and Gaat said that more people were going to die and I just kept thinking about the _goddamn_ boats and—and—John, you were dead.  You were dead and I—”

“Scott.”

“—couldn’t let it happen again.  I didn’t know what to do.   _You’re_ the person who tells me what I’m supposed to do and you were dead—”

“ _Scott_.”

“You’re not _listening_ to me.”  Scott looks at his kid brother—looks him straight in the eye.  When had John gotten so tall?  Probably all those years in the library.  “You were dead, John.  Another person, gone.  Another boat to light every year.  This family can’t light another boat.”

John studies his brother.  Scott can’t remember which of them is supposed to be older.  “Gaat made you do this?”

And, well, that’s not exactly it either.  “No,” says Scott.  “No, I did it.  But it was—he was going to kill people.”

For the first time in a long time, John looks at Scott like maybe he’s answered the question correctly.  “We’re not done here,” says John.  “But I guess I won’t try to kill you.  For now.  I swear, if we can’t fix this—”

“We will fix this,” says Kayo.  “Scott’s not the first person that my uncle has taken advantage of, but he will be the last.  We can take him down, but it has to be together.  He’s already got enough power on his side and he doesn’t need us to do his fighting for him, clear?”

“I’m in,” says Virgil, and his vote is the defining one in this case.  “It’s been too damn long since this family has done anything together.”

There’s a single, sturdy nod from John.  Another from Scott.  Alan smiles and there’s a glimmer of hope during which victory seems possible until—

“Your ‘ighness.”

It’s an out-of-breath gentleman—Gordon’s first mate, if Scott recalls correctly.  Parker.  His name is Parker.  He looks at Penelope when he speaks.  “Princess.  It’s the Captain.”

Penelope looks first.  Then John.  The rest of them look up before Scott, finally, turns towards the edge of the sunset.  Flame flares across the horizon while thick, dark smoke plumes before the golden sun.  It’s little more than a speck, but to those of Kingdom Melchior, it feels so much bigger.

Gordon’s dead.  John’s alive, but Gordon’s dead, and Scott still doesn’t know what to do.

Except that he does.

He scans the crowd, searching, searching, until he spots her.  She stands at the front, already three steps ahead of what he’s thinking and waiting for his signal.  There’s a nod from him, a nod from her, and just like that they’re on the same page.  

Penelope must see her too, because in an instant, the princess is at his side.  “Go,” she says.  “Parker and I will watch over your people in your absence.”

“You’ll keep them safe?” says Scott.  “Even with Gaat playing his tricks?”

“Save your brother,” she tells him, and it’s this moment—the fact that she doesn’t insist on coming with him.  That fact that Gordon is _his_ brother instead of _her_ love.  It sends Scott’s stomach churning and he knows.  He knows that no matter what happens, he  _has_ to get Gordon back.  He has to fix this.  “Let us worry about Gaat.”

And he will.  He trusts Penelope more than he trusts himself.  “I really am lucky,” he says, “to even call you a friend.”

She smiles at him, pats a gentle hand to his cheek.  “I know, darling.  Now go.  Quickly.”

He leaves a quick kiss on her cheek, then sprints down the steps.  “Captain Carter!” he calls.  “Your fastest ship.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Then, to himself, as he looks out onto the horizon one last time, “There will be no more burning boats.”


	47. The Petals of a Cautious Rose

Captain Carter’s ship is covered in rose petals.

Which, Scott supposes, is the sort of thing that happens when one ship is made responsible for carrying literal tons of flowers across the sea for a so far less-than-successful wedding, but he still doesn’t expect it.  The scent smacks him straight in the face as soon as he sets foot on deck and he’s reminded of his garden, of his bride, of all the things he could have been if roses didn’t have thorns.  “Wow.”

She’s dashing across the deck in that same way Gordon used to, and Scott wonders what her story is.  She’s got a way of making him think about the wrong things at the wrong time.  His brother’s ship is burning on the horizon, but Scott’s trying to figure out if Gordon taught her how to sail, or if her father did, or if she just learned it all on her own.  He wishes he knew more, about the second in command.

“Sorry for the mess,” she huffs, unwrapping a rope as thick as her wrist.  “Actually, here.  Unwrap this.”

“Oh, uh—” She slaps the rope in his hands and takes off towards her next task.  The calluses on her hands are white and raw where his are smooth, and now seems like a poor time to remind her that he has never once helped a ship set sail.  “Sure.  Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t be shy about it,” she says.  “That fire isn’t being shy about your brother’s ship, so you don’t have time to be shy about mine.”

And it seems silly—seems _wrong_ that anything could be falling apart with her at the helm.  She brings about that quiet kind of forgetfulness, tearing his thoughts away from that lump in his throat, from that ever-present boulder that has settled at the base of his stomach.  He doesn’t forget about Gordon, exactly— _can’t_ forget—but as he watches her prep her ship for rough waters, it’s almost a curse all it’s own.  He can’t quite look away.  Her very presence reserves fear for a later date.

“Oh for the love of—”  She slides herself down the railing, lands with a thump and transitions straight into a dash towards him.  She doesn’t even blink before she snatches the rope from his palms and begins unwrapping it herself, quicker than he could have.  “ _That’s_ how you do it,” she says.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re far too careful?”

The answer is swift and overwhelming, so much so that it takes him a moment to realize that she’s actually waiting for an answer.  “… um.  No.”

Because his whole life has been composed of warnings from his father and threats from his brothers and that unending voice in his head, reminding Scott that every little thing he hates about himself is only his own fault.  And when he finally gets away from it all, the guilt remains, silent and slick, waiting for the right moment to clutch at his memory and send him into panic.  Prince Scott is not a careful man.  Of this, he is certain.

Captain Carter seems considerably less sure.  “Well you are,” she says.  “Far too careful.  I’ve never heard of a careful king before.”

“You should really speak to my brothers,” he tells her.  “I’m sure they’d be more than willing to reassure you of my recklessness.”

“Well if you don’t start showing me some of that recklessness, you’re going to have one less brother for me to ask,” she tells him.  “Go unwrap the other side.   _Quickly_.”

And then she’s off again.  The way these captains man their ships reminds him of the way his father used to wield a sword—masterful.  Certain.  Confident.  She maneuvers with this sort of abandoned familiarity that makes it seem like she’s got nothing to lose.  

He doesn’t dare dismiss her orders.  He bolts to the other side of the deck, trampling the layer of rose petals beneath his feet.  Scott is the type of person who will always have something to lose, but her words get caught in his head. He’s too careful.  He’s tiptoeing everywhere he walks.  He’s spent so much time hiding from everything he loves that he’s forgotten how to fight for it.

He is going to fight for Gordon.  He owes his kid brother that much.

“You ready, slowpoke?” she calls out.

The last of Scott’s rope gets hauled up onto the deck.  It lands with a hefty _thwap_ and sends the rose petals into a spiral.  He gets caught up in the sight for just a moment too long, watching as the petals dance around one another.  It sucks the air straight from his lungs and there’s a moment when he wonders if this is all wrong.

“No time for hesitation, Highness,” she says, and Scott snaps back to the sea.  “Are you ready or not?”

The wind blows through his hair.  There’s a cloud of smoke sitting on the horizon.  There’s a boat burning in the night and Scott’s tired of being careful.  “Ready.”


	48. The Sprint of a Mad Prince

No.

It is a single word, short, small, but heavier than anything he’s ever known.  It’s all he can think—the only word he remembers the meaning of.  No.   _No._ It’s a statement.  It’s an all-out rejection, because this can’t be happening.  He doesn’t _believe_ it.

Alan doesn’t remember his mother.  He doesn’t mourn his father.  The absence of his parents is not a loss, but rather a fact.  His brothers _miss_ their parents, and he knows that he should too, but he doesn’t know how.  He knows how to be angry at them, knows how to be sad about them, but he doesn’t know how to miss them.  He doesn’t know what it’s truly like to have someone taken away.

Or, well, he _didn’t_.  But as it turns out, watching someone you love die feels a lot like the word _no_.  “He’s not…” Alan mutters.  “No.  No, he’s _not_.”

There’s a crowd at the base of the marble steps.  His brothers all stand at his back, looking out at a ship in the night that burns bright on the horizon.  Alan wants to ignore it, but he can’t—can’t forget that just last night these same people stood facing the same horizon, mourning for their royal family.  He finally understands it.  He finally sees why they send those boats away, year after year after year, and why Gordon never wants to bring them back to shore.  Everything.  All of it.  It’s too much _no_.

This isn’t _fair_.

“Alan?”  He isn’t sure who says it—isn’t really all that sure that anyone’s talking, or if this great big _no_ is sitting on his shoulders and finally, finally driving him as mad as he’s supposed to be.  “Hey.  Alan.”

“No,” he says again, because what else is there?  “No.   _No_.  He’s—no.  He said—he made me promise…  _no_.”

“Alan.  Sit down.  You look sick.”

The youngest Melchior prince has a habit of running off.  Sometimes he disappears for days at a time, slipping between all the cracks and creases in his castle.  He’s gone entire weeks without speaking to a single person.  He’s not sure why he does it.  Maybe it’s because his brothers never believe him, or maybe it’s because it’s easier to be lonely when you’re alone, or maybe it’s just to get away from the doctors.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t think about it.  Alan runs, and he has always run, and this moment isn’t any different.

Except it is.  Because this time, someone’s there to catch him.  “Alan— _hey_.  Calm down.  Alan, stop.”

“No.   _No!_ ”  And the last time someone’s held Alan like this—the last time Virgil held him back, Alan didn’t see the sky for a week.  Locked up in a cellar, resetting himself, no one believing him when he told them all that the sky was blue.  

Except, of course, Gordon.

He looks up at his sky now, and it is not blue.  It is a wide range of purples and reds.  The sun is gone, but it leaves behind stains of falsities, caught somewhere in between night and day.  Night and day.  Night and day.  “No, no, _no_.”

He searches for his stars, but he can only see a few of them.  Not sure which ones.  No.  No.  This can’t be happening.  This is a dream.  This is a nightmare.  Maybe he really is insane.  “He’s _fine_ ,” Alan says.  “No, no.  He’s… no.”

“Alan, _please,_ ” says Virgil.  “Listen to me—”

“ _No_!”  He tears one arm from his brother’s grip, but Vigil is too strong, too quick, too used to restraining his kid brother.  It’s always Virgil who does it.  Always Virgil who takes him down to the cellar.  “This isn’t _real_.  He’s fine.  Everyone’s fine.”

John and Virgil exchange the _look_.  Head by head, one pair of eyes at a time, the crowd turns its attention from the sea to the steps as Melchior’s Teatime Prince makes a scene.  How shameful it feels, to love so loudly.  “I’m going… I have to… let me _go_.”

“Alan, relax,” Virgil hisses in his ear, and it’s a violent word.  It’s a hateful word.  It’s a word that feels so outrageously out of place.   _Relax_.  As if there is not a cloud of smoke that fills his blue sky.  How can he relax?  How can any of them?  They need to _do something_.  They need to help.

And there’s Trinity—he remembers Trinity, out in the woods, waiting for a time that has already been foreseen.  Alan wonders if Trinity knows whether or not Gordon makes it.  Then he wonders whether or not Trinity will tell him.  “I can fix this,” he says.  “Let me go, I can fix this.  I can save him.”

“No.”  The word feels just as heavy on Virgil’s lips as it feels on his own.  “Alan.  Please.  Sit—”

“I don’t _want_ to sit!” he says, and there’s tears, somewhere in him, waiting to get out.  Or maybe they’re here already.  He doesn’t know—doesn’t know anything except for every ounce of _no_ he’s ever felt in his life.  He doesn’t carry Gaat’s curse with him any longer, but he will always be the baby brother.  “You have to—you have to—Virgil, _please_.”

But Virgil just turns him around, and grabs him even tighter, and Alan’s crying into his big brother’s shoulder.  “I know,” Virgil says.  “Listen to me, I know, but you have to stop this.  You have to stop, Alan.  It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t _believe_ you.”

“You have to.”

“No.”  It’s a final, furious shove, before Alan escapes Virgil’s grip and sprints down the steps.  “No one _has_ to believe anyone, but Gordon _always_ believed me.”

“Alan, stop!”  John cries, and the desire to do exactly that is real and immediate, but he doesn’t.  Can’t.  Gordon needs his help, and Alan won’t let anything stop him anymore.  

His brothers race after him, but neither of them can keep up.  Alan’s far too skilled a runner, far to fast for a prince who relies on his horse and a prince who can’t even walk without losing his breath.  He could run for miles and no one would be able to catch him, except—

“You shouldn’t go alone.”

It’s Kayo’s voice, and she’s keeping pace without even breaking a sweat.  “Don’t try to stop me,” he warns.

“Did I say I was gonna stop you?” she asks.  “I said you shouldn’t go alone.  It’s exactly what Gaat wants.”  

“I’m not crazy.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I’m going to save him.”

“I know you’re going to try.”

His feet smack against dirt, one two, one two, one two.  It’s a pulse, one that Alan can latch onto, real and immediate and believable.  He looks up at the sky again, trying to find it through the leaves of the forest, and there’s only blue now.  Blue sky and stars.  “But _am_ I crazy, though?” he asks.

She studies him, watches him as if she can somehow see inside of his head and is trying to put all the pieces together.  “Maybe a little,” she says, and it sends his heart sinking, because it’s the only _no_ he wants to hear.  At least until she adds, “But as far as I can tell, crazy might be the only thing that saves your brother.”


	49. The Sounds of Kingdom Melchior

It’s alarmingly quiet, now that Alan’s gone.

Virgil never lets himself think that Alan is getting better, because as soon as he does Alan suddenly gets so much worse.  Because as soon as Virgil begins to think that maybe it’s not as bad as he remembers, he’s met with the kind of public display of affliction that reminds every prince, every pauper, every run down older-brother of all the reasons they youngest prince only comes out at night.

Except they had been so close.

And that’s the worst of it all, because when was the last time they’ve all been in the same place?  When was the last time John spoke to Alan, the last time Virgil and Scott shared a glance, the last time any of them have been able to look at one brother, then look at another, and realize that they truly are a family?  Too long.  It’s been so damn long, and they had been so close to getting there again.

So maybe there was a moment when Virgil let himself imagine.  Maybe he let himself think that Alan was back to normal, or that he maybe could be, someday.  That’s what the kid does.  However helpless he’s always been, Alan has never been hopeless.  No.   The kid carries hope like it’s terminal, and contagious, and fatal.

So maybe Virgil let himself hope.  It’s not a crime.

And furthermore, it’s not his fault.  The sun is gone now, leaving its final streaks across the sky, and there’s a full moon overhead.  There’s a wolf where his heart should be, telling him that four out of five isn’t good enough.  Four out of five has _never_ been good enough and he misses his brothers.

“Dammit,” he growls.  “Dammit, _dammit_.  I knew this wedding would be too much for him.  I told Scott to keep him inside.  We should have kept him inside.”

John’s on the same step as Penelope, standing at her right hand, both of them looking out towards the burning ship.  They wear the same expression, which is to say that they wear none at all.  Blank.  Empty.  Both of them free from any hope Alan may have left in his wake.  

John doesn’t look away when he speaks.  “Speaking as someone who has spent the majority of his life locked away inside the castle,” he says, “I’d just like to point out that it doesn’t keep a boy from going mad.”

“It was too much,” argues Virgil.  “We should have known it was too much.  All these people, all of this kingdom stuff, and now Gaat.  I should have known better.”

“To be fair,” John says, and his voice is dry.  He’s speaking out of habit now—arguing in that half-minded, fully-informed way that John always does.  “I don’t think it was the wedding that did it to him, but rather the sight of his brother’s burning ship.”

“ _Dammit_ ,” says Virgil, and he kicks a step. “Dammit John this wasn’t supposed to happen.  He was better.  He was _getting better_ and I—”

“We were so close.”

And it’s become abundantly clear that John isn’t listening.  Of course he doesn’t, because Alan’s slip back into insanity is not an immediate issue.  In truth, Alan’s insanity is rarely a thing of immediacy.  It’s a long, aching process of driving a stake through the heart of the beast, just like everything else on this damn island.  John in his tower, Gordon banished to the sea, Scott bound by each and every word he dares to utter.  The plagues cast upon House Tracy are those of the dwindling variety—the background noise in the grand scheme of things, easily ignored, but always there.  Sooner or later, it all starts to add up.  Sooner or later, everything starts to feel too loud.

Except John.  John’s not loud.  His voice is a careful, quiet echo to the thoughts that ring in Virgil’s head.  “We were so, _so_ close,” he says again.

So close, Virgil thinks.  So close to being a family again.  So close to seeing all of his brothers in a single sweeping glance.  So close to how things used to be—

“I should have just seen him,” says John.  “I should have just… I should have just gotten on that ship for—for _one second_.”

So close to Gordon.

When was the last time John and Gordon heard each other’s voices?

There’s a wolf somewhere in his chest, pawing away at his insides with whimpers that feel too loud.  His pack is divided—has been for years—and it’s the reason Gordon’s ship is sinking.  Virgil has been quiet for far too long, and it’s time to start barking orders.  “Yeah, okay,” he says.  “I sure hope Scott doesn’t think we’re all just going to stand around and do nothing, because we’re not.  Ever.  From here on out, the princes of Kingdom Melchior will be known for our action, and not for our secrecy.”

John’s still not listening, going on and on in a voice that Virgil can’t hear, something about seconds, seconds, all the things that can happen in a second.  Virgil doesn’t have the time to spare and, more importantly, Gordon doesn’t.  He closes the gap between himself and his brother, and he shakes the redhead into focus.  Green eyes meet brown and something in Virgil’s chest whines at the thought of his mother.  “ _John_ , listen to me,” he says.

“It only would have taken a second, Virgil,” he says.  “One second and I could have—could have—”

“Snap out of it,” says Virgil.  “You want your one second, well here’s your chance.  Listen to me.  We’ve got to—”

“Gordon.”

“Yeah, I _know,_ John—”

“No,” says John, and he grabs Virgil’s shoulders to turn him towards the sea.  Towards the ship.  Towards the fourth born prince of Melchior, sopping wet as he steps onto shore wearing a shining, silver crown.  “ _Gordon_.”


	50. To Speak the Mother's Name

_May your tongue twist around her name._

He had forgotten what it looked like, the underside of the ocean.  He had forgotten how the water tears the sky apart and how the waves rip the clouds straight from the heavens.  He’s swallowing stars, burning white pinpricks poking their way across his tongue, down his throat, straight into his chest.  Instead of the sun he sees the flame that floats overhead and he wonders if this is how it looks when they send his parents’ ghosts into the night.

And it makes him think of his mother, this flame on the water, as unrelenting as it is.  He’s heard the stories, over and over and over again, of the princess who never stopped—of the queen who ruled with determined command, who acted with her heart more than her mind.

Lucille.  Lucille.  He no longer belongs to Scott’s curse, but still her name sits trapped behind his lips.

Scott Tracy was not cursed to see the future.  That much is written in the stars.  His word does not bend to prophecy, but instead prophecy bends to his word, inch by inch, until his word _becomes_ prophecy by nature of monarchial intervention.  Scott does not see the future.  He creates it.

_May you speak not of her death._

He probably should have abandoned ship when he had the chance, but it’s that heart again.  Always that heart.  It might be the only thing they have in common, he and Scott.  And their mother.  Lucille.  Princess Lucille—Queen Lucille, who married the knight and fought for love and ruled her kingdom with kindness and trust and heart.  So much heart.

And it begs the question as to whether or not the heart is well equipped for such responsibility. Maybe his mother is dead because she loved the knight too much to carry on with her wedding.  Maybe his mother is dead because she trusted her people to share her castle on that very first birthday, or because she loved her first-born too much to kill him when he was cursed with the ability to create the future.

As the ship sinks, it grips his throat, pulls him farther and farther away from the surface.  The underside of the ocean has never looked so broken.

_It will not come without consequence, little brother._

He hears Scott’s voice in that same way he has so many times before, which isn’t fair.  It’s not fair, that Scott gets to be right.  Just once, Gordon wants to be right.  He wants to say the right thing, make the right move, love the right girl.  What would their mother say, about Gordon and Penelope?  Their mother.  Their mother.  Lucille.  Why can’t he say her name?

_May you take to the seas you so love, hunting for a truth that is your own and not mine._

Instead of her name, only air leaves his lips, the last of his life floating up to the surface in saltwater bubbles.  The flame gets farther and farther as the curse he no longer holds pulls him deeper and deeper into darkness.  He should kick.  He should pull.  Where is his mother’s kindness now?  Does it abandon him when he most needs it?  Does the heart live on after death, or is it too doomed to burn?

That is his truth.  All those years spent at sea, yearning for the shore, and for his love, and for his family.  It is a truth belonging solely to Gordon that the heart dies.  Always.  No curse required.

Still.  Doesn’t help.

 _May you turn to sea foam if ever you try to set foot on dry land again_.

Because in the end, the curse is the reason he is here, sinking to the ocean floor, unable to escape the fire above.  Despite the flames, he feels a chill in his fingertips, in his feet, and all down his spine.  He’s out of air and the water pins him down.  He’s too tired to fight back, and so he sinks.  Down, and down, looking at the underside of the ocean for the first time in years.  Lucille.  He still can’t say her name.  He’s useless.  He’s nothing.  As weightless as the foam that floats along the sea.

He wonders what Penelope will think.  Will she mourn him?  Will any of them?

Scott won’t.

Because Scott doesn’t care.  Scott has never cared.  For all that heart he has, none of it has ever been spared for Gordon.  Banishment, neglect.  Even now, Scott stands beside his bride, having torn her from her own heart, and marries her, kisses her, rules kingdoms with her.  Gordon _hates_ Scott, but more than that, he hates _himself_ , because he doesn’t hate Scott.  Not really.

It’s not easy, being Scott.  He knows that.  Gordon practically begged for his curse, storming into the throne room, making accusations, demanding to be listened to, but Scott?  Scott never asked for the curse.

Even so, Scott is the one who marries the princess, and Scott is the one who rules the kingdom, and Gordon is left looking up at the underside of the ocean, wondering if he’ll ever reach the surface.  The curse doesn’t seem to have hindered Scott too badly, comparatively.  

He wants to hate Scott.  He does, but there’s something pulling him up—up towards the surface, and he doesn’t have any more time to spend on his brother.  He wonders if this is it.  Wonders if this, too, is written in the stars.

There’s warmth, sudden in the darkness.  His mother’s hand holds his wrist, and he feels her smile.  He feels her heartbeat.  Lucille—no.

“Mom.”

It hurts.  He feels the name crawl out of his chest, dragging the last of his heart behind it until it’s gone.  It’s all gone, and there’s nothing left except Gordon and his mother’s hand around his wrist.  


	51. The Memories of Empty Princesses

The scent of the sea holds a special place in Penelope’s heart, and that much will be true no matter the day, no matter the year, no matter the curse that has been placed on her.  The scent of the sea brings with it memories of Melchior and all its princes—mornings spent sailing towards the castle on the horizon, evenings spent running through their forests.  She can see that old tree from where she currently stands, blossoming with tiny pink flowers, and she remembers all those hours spent with John.  All those conversations had with Gordon.  If Caspar is her home, then Melchior is her family, and the scent of the sea is the warm embrace that holds her close.

The boy that emerges from Melchior’s sea is one with whom she shares many memories and it’s… it doesn’t feel quite… well, it’s only that she _knows_ there’s supposed to be something more.  She knows that whatever she’s feeling, it isn’t quite complete.  Like a word on the tip of her tongue or a breath she can’t quite catch.  Like a sentence left unwritten, a wave that never crashes, an ending that is anything but happy.  It’s unfinished, this thought she has about Gordon, but there are plenty more that fill her mind.  Not the least of which is the fact that Gordon, after all these years, is stepping up onto the shore.

And it’s John—John who has just escaped his library, John who is desperate to speak to the brother he’s been laughing with for years, John who is willing to believe anything at face value, so long as it is what he wants to see—It’s John who makes that first move.  “Gordon.”

Penelope still holds Scott’s sword in her hands, and she swings it in front of her best friend, blade flat against his chest, before he can take one step closer.  “Wait,” is all she says.

The crowd parts as a frantic Gordon makes his way across the sand.  He’s out of breath.  His shirt sticks to his skin.  Blues and greens are all that remains in the sky behind him, and moonlight is the cold white light that contrasts the warmth of the fire he leaves behind.  The majority of stars have yet to reveal themselves, but not even they stand a chance at tearing attention away from the sight of Prince Gordon as he steps onto dry land.

And it’s just too much of a coincidence, for this family to get Gordon back on the same day that they also get John.  It’s too much _luck_ , and Penelope has never been a particularly passionate believer in luck as it is.  Her steps down that marble staircase are slow, purposeful things, as careful as her appraisal of the young boy before her.  

“Princess—Princess, thank the stars,” he says, tripping over sand in his attempt to get closer to her.  She meets him at the bottom of the steps, she raised on marble and he standing on bare ground.  “King Gaat,” he sputters.  “It was King Gaat.  He appeared before me on my ship as I sailed away into the night.”

Penelope does not say a word.  She does not have to.

“His intents were malicious, and I did all I could to defend myself,” says Gordon.  He turns to the crowd, making sure they can hear, then turns back to her.  “He was so strong, but in the end, I was stronger, because I knew—I just knew that I had to make it back to my kingdom.  I had to return and serve my people.”

And this is the first clue.  Gordon serves his crew, he serves her father, and her serves her with ardent disregard for self.  Very rarely does he ever speak of serving his people and when he does, it is usually because he has a speech to write for one of his brothers.

But the boy before her reeks of the sea, and he wears Gordon’s crown, and it’s convincing.  It’s very convincing.  There’s a good chance she’s wrong, and the boy before her speaks the truth.  Perhaps she is witnessing an awakening.  Perhaps Gordon has changed somewhere between the horizon and the shore.  “He broke my curse,” Gordon says.  “He said he wanted me to feel it, when I lost our battle—said that my turning to sea foam would be too quick, too easy.  He wanted me to leave this world slowly.”

She examines the silver crown that rests atop his head.  The stones in his crown are yellow—artificially so, colored by flame.  She recalls all of his letters, and all the times he’s told her that he wishes more stones took the color of the sun.  She has so many memories of him.  How strange it is, to have so many loving memories of someone she no longer loves.

“But I didn’t leave this world,” he goes on.  “I _beat_ King Gaat, and I swam back to shore, and now the people of Melchior may rest, knowing that he has been defeated.”

Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, the hiss of collective whispers grows across the wedding crowd.  There’s a part of her that desperately wants to believe the rumors that spread—a part of her that pleads for his safe return, for his happiness, for his triumph.  It’s not a very large part or her, nor is it particularly certain, but it’s _there_.  There’s… _something_  that makes her want to believe.  Something.

“For years, this kingdom has lived in fear of the powerful sorcerer, and I have beat him.  I have _beat_ him, Princess, and I am now Melchior’s most fearless soldier.”

Except that’s another clue, because the word _soldier_ is not a word that exists in Gordon’s vocabulary—at least not when referring to himself.  She has memories of him saying the word, each and every instance met with the wrinkle of his nose, and the pinch of his lips.  That is not the case this time, and she wonders if Gordon knows himself as well as she knows him.  How strange it is, to have such intimate memories of someone with whom intimacy is neglected.

The whispers grow louder, and she hears only some of them, bleeding out from the edges.   _Should be our king_ , says one.   _Long live Prince Gordon_ , says another.  Even now she can picture it, the rebellion in the streets, the people calling for their war hero to take the throne.  It will not start today, it will not start tomorrow, but she suspects that one day there will be a divide between the right of the first born, and the earnings of the fourth.  

Whatever Gordon’s up to, he’s doing a good job of it.

“My dear prince,” she says, loud enough that all may hear, and she wants it to be him.  Some part of her, buried beneath everything she doesn’t feel, desperately, hopelessly wants it to be him.  Except, no.  She doesn’t.  She doesn’t care.

She loves him.

She loves him not.

“We thank you for your service, but more than that, we are happy for your return.”  There’s something… well.  There’s something heavy, perhaps, about her next words, except the leave her tongue with ease, in a way they might never have been able to before.  “We very nearly lost you, it would appear.”

“Very nearly, Princess,” he agrees.  “Very nearly.”

And there’s that part again, swelling up somewhere in her chest.  It’s an _almost_ kind of feeling.  A _could be_ in that way that Gordon always is, and she acts on impulse.  And drive.  And the memory of all those moments she spent with a boy she no longer loves.

When she hugs him, the crowd sighs, wistfully.  Dreamily.  Except Penelope receives her third and final clue in that moment, because even though this boy smells of the sea on the surface, buried beneath, he smells of a copper sting—the rough, metallic sting of gold, gold, gold.  

She still holds the sword in his hand, the cross of the blade hanging along his spine.  The sea is no longer there, and neither are the memories.  With her hand his his hair and the blade at his back, she whispers in his ear, “You’re not Prince Gordon.”  

And before he can pull away, she’s done it.  It’s effortless, the way she drives the sword into Gordon’s back—almost peaceful, watching him fall to his knees.  She hears the screams of a boy she’s meant to love, but instead of horror, she feels satisfaction.  She feels triumph.

She feels that little _maybe_ part of her die, once and for all.

The crowd looks on in fear and almost instantly there are cries of betrayal.  Of murder.  Burn her, and hang her, and kill her.  It’s always amazing, how quickly the people will turn on their own royalty, but then again, she is not their royalty.  Not yet.  That ship has, quite literally, sailed.

But she stops the cries with a single shout.  “This is not your prince,” she calls to them, looking down at the boy who struggles for breath at her feet.  The blade pierces through his front, just barely, and it must hit every organ on the way down.  From shoulders to stomach, he feels the blade’s sting.  “And you do not deserve to wear his crown.”

She snatches it from his head and, just like that, the illusion falls.  The stars are out now, but no one notices, because instead of Gordon, they now witness Gaat as he struggles against Prince Scott’s sword.  “ _No_ ,” he snarls.  “How does this _keep happening_?”

Penelope squats down to his level, a pile of satin ballooning around her hips.  “Do you smell the sea, Your Majesty?” she says.  “I have crossed that sea every summer since my first.  I have spent _years_ in this castle,  _lifetimes_ in this castle.  I have seen this family at their best, and I have seen each of them at their worst, and _you_?”  She spits at his knees.  “You are a _foolish_ man, who does not understand the power which this family holds—which this family has _always_ held.”

“And what might _that_ be?” says Gaat.

“Love,” she tells him.  “This family has always loved far too deeply.”

“ _Love_ ,” he repeats.  “That is no power.  Power is sorcery.  Power is money.  If you want to see a powerful family, my dear, you will make your way just a bit farther across the sea to Kingdom Balthazar.”

“I have no more words for you, Gaat,” she says.  “You will be dead soon anyways.”

Gaat laughs, and though it is weak and bloodstained, it sends a chill down the strings of Penelope’s corset.  When did her strings get so tight again?  “If you think you can kill me with the sword of your precious prince, then you are even more foolish than I assumed, Princess.”

And it’s John—it’s always John—who appears by her side.  “Well that’s good,” he says.  “Because as it so happens _I_ have a few words for you—questions in fact.”

“Oh do you, now?”

John walks around Gaat, grips the handle of Scott’s blade, and drives it further into the man’s back.  “In fact, I do,” he answers, perfectly cheerful over the king’s screams.  “And by the time I’m done with you, I’m willing to bet that you’ll be wishing this blade can kill you.  Now—”

There’s a twist, and another scream.

“—where is my brother?”


	52. To Save a Brother's Life

When Scott breaks the surface he is met not with the heavens, but instead with gold.  Walls of gold. The air is heavy with humidity and the heat is harsh.  Everywhere he turns, he sees flames latching onto what remains of the ship Gordon gave his life to.  

And he searches, desperate for a way out, because he didn’t get this far to fail now.  He didn’t get as far as to hold his little brother in his arms, only to have them both burn.  The air is heavy, sinking down to the bottom of his chest, and he’s coughing more than Gordon.  He’s no sailor, but even he knows that’s not a good sign.  “C’mon, Gords,” he huffs.  “C’mon.”

He’s swimming in circles.  Literally.  They’re surrounded and Scott hadn’t been counting on this to be so exhausting.  The last time he held Gordon the kid was tiny, and he was happy, and he was breathing.  There was a time when Gordon would see Scott and he’d run up to him, reach out to him, tackle him to the ground.  Now his arms just float on the surface of the water, and his lips are blue.  “I need you to stay with me, kid.”

His skin crawls under the heat, his cheeks shriveling.  There’s got to be _something._ There’s got to be _some_ way out.  Gordon would know what to do.  He should have just listened to Gordon.  He should have just— _god_.  There’s so many things he should have done.  

His legs are numb with cold.  His shoulders are hot with flame.  He can’t get a breath in and he can’t feel Gordon’s pulse.  Two boys float at the center of the sea and Scott has never felt so small.  His brother is counting on him, but  once again Scott will disappoint.  His strength is wilting.  He’s all dried up.  He lets his head fall back into the water, trying to keep Gordon up with whatever he has left, but it’s not enough.  When it comes to Gordon, it’s never enough.  “I’m sorry,” he says, and he only hopes Gordon can hear him, because it’s the only truth he can remember.  He’s sorry for now and he’s sorry for always.  “I’m so sorry, Gordon.”

And that’s it, really.  That’s all he has to say, because he knows that Gordon can’t hear him and anyways, there’s nothing else.  As far as Scott’s concerned, this curse has killed his mother.  It has killed his father.  Now it kills his brother, so it’s only fitting that it kills him, too.  Scott’s pretty sure he always knew that this would be how it happened—at the hands of his curse, fighting it to his death.  He hopes there’s something noble about it.  That the good he’s done outweighs the bad, and that he’ll get to see his mother, and that he’ll finally get to apologize to her too.  

Except he won’t get that chance, because he hears his name.

At first he thinks it’s the captain and that she’s found a way to navigate across the rough waters, but it doesn’t sound quite right and anyways, she wouldn’t use his name.  What’s more is that there’s a wind is blowing in, far too strong, far too sudden for nature, and the fire starts to twirl.  

Scott shoots back up and it’s his instinct to try and cover Gordon from the whip of the flame. It’s almost enchanting, the way it flicks and twists in every direction, until Scott feels a strike on the back of his hand and tears it away.  The water is a cool relief to a sharp sting and when he pulls his hand back up, he sees blisters lining his skin just as the stars line the sky.  He’s not careful enough.  He should have been more careful.

“Scott!” he hears again, and he turns towards the voice just in time to see Alan, flying through the flame on the back of a bright red, monstrous dragon.  “Hey.  Scott—oh god, is he okay?  Climb on.”

It’s a little bit of a surprise, that Alan actually hadn’t been lying about the dragon, but Scott doesn’t have the time to linger on that thought and, more importantly, Gordon doesn’t either.  The dragon smothers the flame as it sits on the water, steam hissing under its stomach, and Scott doesn’t question it.  He pulls Gordon over to the dragon’s long neck where Alan waits to help them out.  Only together are they able to lift him.  Only together are they able to carry him along the dragon’s back, safely out of reach of the fire, and down the dragon’s tail onto Captain Carter’s rose-covered ship.  

The girl is there—Alan’s friend.  The apparent princess of Balthazar.  Her first words to Scott were that he is unfit to rule.  He sees now that she had been right.  She wears that very same expression of disgust that he’s seen her wear before, and she watches Gordon with the sort of sadness of a friend lost.

They lay him down across the ship’s deck.  No one says a word.  The only sound is that of the fire, crackling in the distance.  Alan’s on his knees, kneeling atop piles of petals as he watches for his brother’s breath.  “Scott,” he says, not daring to look away.  “Scott, he’s not… do something.”

Scott knows he can’t do anything.  He’s tried too many times.  He’d spent hours at his mother’s bedside—days at his father’s grave.  Still, he tries.  “Gordon, wake up.”

Gordon does not wake up.

The princess waves her fingers, pulling the water straight from Gordon’s chest.  It snakes from his throat—so much water.  Too much water.  This is probably the time when Gordon is supposed to start coughing and his color is supposed to come back to him, but it doesn’t happen.  Of course it doesn’t.

“No,” says Alan.  “ _No_.  This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.  We _got_ to him.  We saved him.  He’s supposed to be _saved_.”

There’s a burning pain in Scott’s right hand, bubbling with heat, reminding him of that instinct he’d felt to save his brother from the fire.  Too little, too late, perhaps.  He probably should have saved Gordon long before that moment.  

And then it’s Scott who falls into rose petals, because this is different.  This is different from losing his mother or his father or John.  He remembers Gordon.  He remembers the day a new baby came into his life.  He remembers the celebration they had hosted and how it had seemed longer than all the others.  How everyone had danced just a little bit longer, sang just a little bit louder, been just a little bit happier after Prince Gordon was born.  He wonders what this kingdom will feel like now, without the fourth born prince of Melchior.

He doesn’t much like that idea.

And so he pats his brother’s cheeks, gives him a good shake.  “Gordon, wake up.  I command you to wake up.”

It’s supposed to work, but it doesn’t.  It never does, when he wants it to.

“You don’t get to do this,” Scott says.  “You don’t get to leave, do you hear me?  Come back right now and tell me what an idiot I am.  Fight me.  Hate me.  Scream at me until I realize I’m wrong and then scream some more.  Come _back_.”

But the stars are out now, and the sun is gone, and Gordon isn’t coming back.


	53. The Hesitations of Prince Scott

Scott hesitates.

The gangway feels longer than it should and it’s going to take an entire journey for Scott to make it from deck to dock.  The weight of his brother in his arms is nothing compared to the weight in his stomach and there’s a rose blossoming in his throat, pricking him until he tastes blood.  He stands with tired shoulders, looking out at his kingdom, and he can’t stop thinking about the sand.  He hesitates.  What happens to Gordon if he touches the sand?

Doesn’t much matter anymore, he supposes.

It’s one step.  Then two.  Gordon’s crew stands at the edges of the crowd, standing guard as they split the congregation right down the middle.  None of them say a word as Scott follows their path.  A silence falls over the shore—a silence that Scott’s only heard twice before.  They mourn him.  They’ve lost him.

Parker is the first to kneel.  The rest of the crew follow.  It moves like a wave throughout the crowd, people of every age, class, and color removing their caps, bowing their heads, and paying tribute to the fallen prince.  Gordon has never been less alone.

He lays his brother down in the sand and is almost heartbroken when he doesn’t turn to foam.  Now there is a body to bury.  Now there is a boat to burn.  It would have been better, he thinks, for Gordon to simply dissolve.  For him to become the sea which he so deeply loved.  He deserves more than to be sent out on the very same ships he was once sent to receive.  Scott hesitates for just a moment before he, too, kneels to his brother.

“No.”  That’s John’s voice.  Scott doesn’t look up—doesn’t want to see the look on his face.  “ _No_.  Gordon, no.”

He’s clumsy, running across sand.  Maybe he’s got every right to be, having been locked away in a tower all those years.  It’s not like when they were kids and John could easily out sprint Scott along the shore.  These days the sand sprays from his ankles and sends him flying forward, one step after the other, before he trips and crumbles at Gordon’s side.  “No, no no no no.  Dammit, Gordon.  You’re fine—christ, you always were a fan of the dramatics–listen to me.  You’re fine.  Come on, Gordon.”

John gives him the same shake that Scott did.  He gets the same response.  Gordon lays lifeless upon the shores of Melchior as his kingdom looks on.  It’s impossible now, to ignore John.  To ignore the red in his face and the desperate clutch at Gordon’s shirt.  Scott hesitates, not sure that he should say anything, but eventually he manages a, “Sorry, John.”  He looks up.  “I’m sorry I’ve lost you so many people you love.”

And the way John looks at him, it’s like he isn’t sure.  He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say or do or even think, and so the two of them are just _there_ , together, wondering what comes next.

“Well isn’t this _lovely_.”

His voice is a perpetual sneer and it sends ice down Scott’s spine.  Scott hesitates before he looks down the aisle, because he doesn’t want to see what waits for him at the other end.  There’s Virgil, who looks unlike Scott’s ever seen him before, as if he may just curl up and die where he stands.  There’s Penelope, who experiences no such pain, and that in itself is enough to send Scott over the edge into a dizzying amount of guilt.

Between them, Gaat, wearing a serpentine grin.

“Look at your king, Melchior,” he calls to the crowd.  “Look at how he fails to save even his own brother.  Do you trust him with your own life?  Do you trust him with your families?”

And Scott stays kneeling for just a moment longer, really looking at a man so completely consumed with power that he curses and kills and destroys.  He has to wonder if Gaat was always like this.  Was he born evil, or did he become it?  Has all the good in him vanished?  Is it an instinct, to act so maliciously, or was it an accident—one well-meaning mistake after another until all was lost, and only emptiness remained?

Scott wonders what kind of questions a man like Gaat asks the mirror, just before he vows that he will never find out.  “John,” he says.  “I need this crowd cleared.  You and Virgil should be able to shoo them away.”

“What?” says John.  “What are you talking about?  Why—?”

“I’m going to end this war.  And I’m going to do it tonight.”

So Scott says.  So it shall be.

There’s a nod from John, and just like that he’s up, darting into the crowd.  At the other end of the aisle, Virgil follows and the crowd begins to disperse, slowly but surely.  “Alan,” he says, and his youngest brother is just at his back, still keeping an eye on Gordon, still unable to believe what he sees.  “Your sword.  I need your sword.”

“One condition,” says Alan.

“What’s that?”

“Kill him,” he says, and Scott can’t remember ever hearing him speak with such a command.  “I never want to hear the name Gaat again.”

Alan sticks the sword into the sand, and then he runs off, helping with the disbursement efforts.  The handle wobbles in the air and Scott swears he’s seen these gems before.  He knows he’s seen this pattern.  The ghost of his father is at his back and it is with only a bit of hesitation that Scott finally stands and grips his father’s sword.  “Princess Penelope,” he calls across the sand.  “If you would, please remove the sword from the king’s back.”

“Scott…” she warns.

“Please, Penelope,” he says.  “The sword.”

“Yes, please,” Gaat chimes in.  “It’s rather uncomfortable, you know.”

She looks down at the king as if he is a bug—a nasty, creepy little nuisance  that needs to be stepped on.  Her hand reaches behind his back and she _pulls_ , quick and merciless, until she holds a bloody sword.  She tosses it before the king’s knees as he catches his breath, the blade landing with a thud.  “Much obliged, Your Highness,” he tells her.

“Stand up,” Scott tells him.  “Stand.  Wield your weapon.  Fight.”

His commands fall flat against the old sorcerer in a way he simply isn’t used to.  So often the response is instantaneous—almost as if it is a reflex.  That is not the case with Gaat.  He takes his time.  “Now, now, Prince Scott.  It is very rude to—”

“ _Stand_ , Gaat!” he hollers, and the sound echoes from his castle, his forest, his kingdom.  “If it is a war you’re looking for, then it is a war you will get.  Stand and carry your sword.”

Gaat sighs, loudly, for all to hear.  “Very impatient, you princes,” he says.  “Very well, but do forgive me.  I’ve never been very fond of sword fights.  A bit too boring for my taste.  Perhaps… this—”

Scott sees the flash barrel towards him.  He sees the crowd run at the sight of Gaat’s curses, but the flash dissipates before he can even react.  Scott wonders what his game is—wonders what the advantage is to bluffing a spell—but when he looks back at Gaat, he appears to be just as confused as Scott.  

“Let’s make this an even fight, shall we?” And the Princess is there—Balthazar’s very own, fighting against her king.  Her family.  “Pick up the sword, Uncle,” she says.  “Fight with honor in your final moments.”

“ _You_ ,” he hisses, and this time he does stand.  He does pick up the sword.  “You’re supposed to be—”

“Trapped,” she finishes.  “Yes, well, terrible news for you, I’m afraid.  You see, these boys have found the Sword of Lover’s Star.”

Scott’s not sure what that means, but he can tell by the look on Gaat’s face that it isn’t good.  At least, not for him.

It’s a flick of the wrist and another flash.  The princess throws up her hands and blocks.  One, two, three more flashes, but she catches each of these just as well as the first.  Gaat lets out a scream.  The princess does not react.  “Your sword, Uncle.  Show the people how strong you really are.”

She sends a glance in Scott’s direction and, however much she dislikes him, she clearly despises Gaat even more.  However temporary, they are on the same team, and she gives him a firm nod.  He responds with a thankful nod of his own and then, together, they take their stances.

Gaat takes his sword.  He carries it with a surprising amount of grace and it occurs to Scott that Gaat may have been just like him, once upon a time.  A prince, practicing his drills in the garden, waiting for the day he would one day become king.  He wonders exactly when the snake slithered past his rosebushes, and why he didn’t just stomp on it.  

All of it causes Scott to hesitate.  Who is he to deny Gaat forgiveness?

But Gaat does not search for forgiveness.  He holds no remorse.  His charge at Scott is swift and powerful and it puts Scott on the defense, right from the start.

Cling, clang, swish.  Their training meets at the edge of the blades.

Slice, clang, clack.  It’s a dance that Scott knows all the moves to.

There’s a fair amount of foul play on Gaat’s end, largely that of the enchanted variety, but Scott has the princess behind him, bending and twisting and working away at all the spells until—

It’s a single moment, magical.  Written in the stars.  It’s the perfect alignment of spells and swordplay.  It’s his mother and his father and his brother, all looking down on him, each of them providing their own aid in the efforts against King Gaat.  Scott’s sword catches Gaat’s and he loops it out of his grip.  The princess sends him flying, back, back, back into the marble staircase.  Gaat lets out a groan, and Scott places his blade beneath the king’s chin.

“Give me a reason,” Scott begs, and he’s not sure which side he’s arguing for.  “Any reason at all.”

His eyes flicker towards the princess.  “Tanusha,” he says.  “This is a mistake.  Imagine how heavy it will be, if you are the only one to bear it.”

The princess keeps her stance, never let’s her guard down.  “I will bear the weight of the sky,” she tells him.  “So long as it means I will no longer have the bear the weight of _you_.”

His brothers make themselves seen, standing just at Scott’s back.  Perhaps they feel they are needed, or perhaps they merely wish to see an end brought to the man who has caused them so much pain.  Whatever the case, Scott is glad to have them here.

He has one last chance to hesitate.  He has one last chance to imagine king Gaat as a young prince.  He has one last chance to remember the night his mother died, to remember what John had looked like, after three days without food.  He has one last chance to consider every day Virgil has spent in the forest and every night Alan has spent alone.  The back of his hand throbs with the beating of his own heart and he remembers Gordon.  God, all the pain he’s caused Gordon.

He has one last chance to hesitate—to remember all these years, all these memories that Gaat’s curse has touched—but he doesn’t take it.  No.  Prince Scott does not hesitate for one moment before he drives his father’s sword into Gaat’s chest.

This time, there is no blood.  This time there is no scream.  Scott watches, both gleeful and disgusted, as Gaat begins to wither.  Skin peels.  Limbs detach.  Everything—all of it—turns to bright, crimson rose petals, blown away by the sea breeze.

And it doesn’t feel like it’s over.  Not really.  The moment itself hesitates, and Scott prepares himself for more of a battle.  The blade of his father’s sword shimmers in the moonlight, as if made from the stars themselves, and Scott wonders what he would say, if his father were here.

Virgil’s hand lands on his shoulder.  “Dad’s sword,” he says.  “I guess, in a way, he’s still looking out for us.”

Scott huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh, isn’t quite a sigh.  “Yeah,” he agrees.  “I guess—”

But Scott doesn’t get to finish that thought, because before he can, there’s another princess calling out into the night.  Her descent is slow at first—one step at a time—but it gets faster and faster until she’s sprinting across sand in a dress made up of dirty white satin.  “Gordon,” says Penelope.  “ _Gordon_.”


	54. The Breath of a Fallen Prince

When she was very young her father would warn her about crossing the palace lawn, stating that if she ran too far, she would surely fall off the edge of the Earth.  This, of course, was met with instant intrigue.  Instead of succumbing to that fear which her father had most certainly been aiming for, Penelope would spend entire afternoons running far, father, farthest, wondering what the edge of the world could possibly look like and then wondering how far she could go before she fell.  These curiosities were never satisfied.

Years later, on her first trip to Kingdom Melchior, Parker had been the one to warn her about the edge.  He’d given her that old grey smile, pointed out to the horizon, and told her all the stories about the men who had been lost to the far corners of the sea.  He had told her these same stories again the second time, and the third and the fourth, until she was old enough that the edge became little more than a story, and she became dubious about its existence at all.

Except it is there.  She knows that now.

Because same as the sun has set, so too has Gordon found the edge of the world, and he’s fallen.  He’s fallen, and never before have her father’s warnings stirred up so much fear.  Never before have Parker’s stories rang so true.  The edge does exist, and it is cruel, and it is unforgiving, and it will leave even the best sailors with nothing.

It’s clear to her now that the edge of the earth is more than just a story—it is an abyss, as real as the sea, and Scott Tracy has reached out his hand, plucked his brother from the darkness, and pulled him back into shore.  If there’s anyone who can reach over that edge and steal his brother back from the hands of fate, it’s Scott.  “Fix this,” she tells him, and a white dress falls into the dirt.  She wipes the hair out of Gordon’s eyes, dark golden curls against pale skin.  “Scott, _fix him_.”

She hears his footsteps as he trudges through sand, hears the blade of his sword land with a _thunk_.  “Penelope…”

And she snaps her glare up at him, unwilling to hear what he’s about to say next.  “You’ve done it before.  We both know you’ve done it before—I’ve _seen_ you do it.  Bring him _back_.”

John stands a ways away, distancing himself in that way he always has, and she remembers that terrible night—that night when John had fallen.  How is it so easy for them?  Why is it the people she loves can all find the edge before she can?  Why is Scott Tracy the only guardian?  This isn’t fair.  This isn’t _fair._

“I tried,” Scott tells her.  “Honestly, Penelope, I tried, but—”

“Well try again.”

“You really think I haven’t tried a hundred times?  You really think I haven’t tried thousands, millions of times?”

“You’re not trying hard enough,” she snarls. “Try again.  Try harder.  Try until you can’t anymore.  You don’t get to pick and choose, Scott.  You don’t get to save John and then—”

“He’s _gone_ , Penelope!”

The words echo.  Across the sea, along the forest, against the stone of that palace atop the highest hill, the words echo.  One by one, the townspeople return from hiding, timid and afraid, but needing to mourn their prince.  Needing to see for themselves that the echoes they hear are true.  Scott doesn’t seem to notice.  “He’s gone, and I’ve failed him.”  Then, almost to himself.  “I’ve failed all of them.”

It isn’t clear who he means, exactly.  It isn’t clear if he feels he’s failed his brothers, or if he’s failed his family, or if he’s failed his entire kingdom.  The words are heavy no matter their meaning because whatever the case, she wishes now more than ever that she could really, truly hate Scott Tracy.

Instead, she settles on Gordon.  

And it’s almost like watching him sleep, except that he isn’t breathing.  Her memories are full of all the breaths he took—the way he’d hold it when he first saw her, the way his chest moved up and down against her back, the little gasps in between every last one of their kisses.  She places her hand on his chest, waiting for those breaths she knows so well, begging for the heartbeat that marches in tune with hers, but it isn’t there.  None of it’s there.  This is not Gordon, it is merely what remains after the fall.  “You’re a liar, you know,” she tells him.  “A damned liar.  You promised me that this would never happen.  You said that sailors never fall.  Apples and angels, remember?  Remember that, you stupid, foolish man?”

She waits, and there’s too long of a silence before she realizes that she is waiting for his answer.  An answer that will never come.  “Though, what does that make me?  For believing you?  Only a fool believes a fool, I suppose.  I was such a fool.”

She leans down, presses her forehead against his.  She’s tired.  God, she’s tired.  Perhaps it is her turn, to find the edge and jump.  “You’ve made an absolute fool out of me, Gordon Tracy,” she says.  Even now, an inch away, she can’t feel his breath.  The absence is gutting.  “And I want to thank you.  For every moment of it.”

It’s meant to be a goodbye.  It’s meant to be an end.  When the princess of Caspar kisses the fourth born prince of Melchior, wearing a white dress at the end of her wedding day, she does not think of her duty.  She does not consider her promises.  She acts in honor of her lost love, and she acts with her heart, and she wants to make sure he knows.  She wants him to know how loved he was, and how loved he will continue to be.  

Except it is not a goodbye and it is far from an end because when Penelope kisses Gordon, Gordon kisses Penelope right back.  She’s sure she’s imagining it at first, sure that she’s haunted by her fondest memories, but then she feels his breath against her skin.

She pulls back.  The action is quick enough and sudden enough that it startles all four of the brothers.  “Gordon,” she says, and her hand falls to his shoulder.  “Gordon?”

The brothers are cautious, in that way that everyone is when they aren’t sure they want to hope.  Everyone, of course, except for Alan, who has never been reserved about his hope throughout his entire life.  He darts across the beach, slides onto his knees, and lands with a pile of sand at Gordon’s side.  “Hey,” he says.  “Hey, yeah, you doofus.  He’s waking up.  Why’s he waking up?”

And then, John, still too far, but getting closer.  “For true love conquers all,” he says.  “Mom’s song.  She was right.”

“Gordon,” Penelope says again, and she can see the color returning to his cheeks.  She sees the rise and fall of his chest, shallow, but _there_.  Slowly, surely, Gordon is clawing his way back from the edge of the world.  Her hand finds his hair, fingers falling through wet curls.  “Come home, Gordon.”

He smiles first.  Before he does anything else, he smiles.

His eyes open next, slow.  Heavy.  But his smile is light and quick and as bright as ever.  “Penelope,” he says.  “Pen—aww god, Pen.  I just had the worst dream.”

“I know, darling,” she says, and it’s only now that she realizes she hadn’t been breathing either.  “I know.”

“It wasn’t a dream, stupid,” says Alan.  The kid’s smiling, but she sees him swipe at his nose, and the red rims around his eyes are hard to see in the dark.  “You were dead.  Like, you were super dead.”

Every move Gordon makes looks painful, like he’s all rusted up.  “Nah, Al,” he says.  “Nah.  I mean, maybe though, but nah.  I’m fine now.  I’ll be fine.”

Alan shakes his head.  “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me,” says Gordon, and his smile is wider than before.  “I just need you to trust me.”

The word _trust_ seems to stir something in him, and Gordon’s eyes are suddenly wider.  His breaths are suddenly quicker.  There’s a fear there, large enough that Penelope thinks he may be staring right at the edge of the Earth once more.  “Scott,” he says.  “Where’s Scott?  Someone find—”

“Right here, Gordon.”

And where there would usually be a silence or a glare or some other unspoken fight of superiority, there is instead undiluted panic.  “Scott, it’s Gaat,” he says.  “He tricked me.  He said—he said he would—”

“Gaat’s dead, Gordon,” replies Scott, and it’s simple.  It’s peaceful.  “Killed him.  You just missed it.”

“You…” and then there’s confusion.  Or maybe his ears are just full of water.  “You killed Gaat?”

Scott nods.  “You don’t have to worry about him anymore, okay?”

“What about you?” says Gordon.  “Do I have to worry about you?”

There’s a pause.  To Scott’s credit, he really does seem to think about it, which is probably why it’s so easy to believe him when he says, “No.”

Gordon’s eyes fall shut again, but his breaths are getting stronger.  He reaches up to his brother, gives him two strong slaps on the calf.  “Nice job, Scott.”  A yawn.  “Nice job.  Take five, everyone—”

“Um, guys?” says Virgil, and he’s too far away.  It takes a moment for Penelope to find exactly where the voice is coming from.  “I don’t think it’s over just yet.”


	55. The Split of Six Stones

It was easier, when her father was around.

She remembers nights when she thought the sky was beautiful.  When she could look up and see endless opportunities instead of a ceaseless burden.  She remembers her father’s rule over Kingdom Balthazar and how he had sworn to protect his people from the threat found within his own blood. 

Gaats are born with their curse.  They do not earn it and they cannot escape it.  At least, that’s what her father told her, all those years ago.  Maybe it’s not fair and maybe it’s not right, but just as she carries the privilege of the crown, so too must she carry the weight of the curse.  It is the price they pay for power, even now, after so many generations since their rise to the throne.

Personally, Kayo’s always found the price to be a little steep.  Power never did her any favors.  Power trapped her in a reflection for most of her life.  Power took away her father.  She still remembers how much heavier it got, when she felt him die.  It was easier when her father was around.

And as much as she hates to say it, it was easier with her uncle, too.  Now she carries twice the weight she’s used to and the stars are staring to fall.  

“This would be a really good time for you to let me in on that plan you’ve been working on,” says Virgil.  He’s trying to help her up, but all of her energy is fixed on the sky.  She has nothing left to hold herself up.  

She hears footsteps darting up the marble staircase.  “Kayo!” someone calls.  Blue eyes look over her and she wonders how long it will be before the sky falls on him, too. “Hey.  No way, Kayo.  Don’t think you’re getting out of it this easy.  You’re stuck with us now.”

She laughs.  “I used to look up at these stars every night,” she says.  “They were always moving—always turning with time.  Reminded me that I was human.”

Alan smiles down at her, soft.  Gentle.  He pulls her head onto his lap and she can’t remember the last time anyone’s actually tried to comfort her.  “I know,” he says.  “I know what you mean.”

“They’re falling,” she tells him, and she knows he can see it, but she still feels like it needs to be said.  “The stars are falling.  I miss my father.  I want my father.”

Alan’s still smiling.  “I know,” he says.  “S’okay.  I know.”

More footsteps.  It’s starting to get overwhelming, all of these sounds.  All of these voices.  There’s a weight on her chest, bleeding outwards into the rest of her body, and she can’t breathe.  “What is it?”  That’ll be Scott.  “What’s going on?”

“Sky’s falling,” says Alan.  “No big deal.”

“Come again?”

She watches Scott turn his gaze towards the heavens.  His silhouette is dark against the shimmering white streaks as he looks out.  For a moment, she can almost imagine him as a king—the conquerer of evil, controller of his own destiny, fighting for those he loves.  There are worse people, she thinks, who have sat on a throne.  After all, it can’t be easy to hold the world up without his father there to help him.

He doesn’t look back down when he speaks.  “Hey, um, Princess?” he says.  “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on, would you?”

And then it’s John, who always seems to have the answers.  “The Gaats are cursed, Scott.”

“ _More_ curses?” says Scott.  “God, can’t we just—you know what?  No more curses.  Curses are officially outlawed.  Everywhere.  Ever.”

“Well that’s great,” says John.  “Except that a) you’re not actually king yet and b) it doesn’t really help our current situation, so maybe that decree can wait until we’re no longer facing a fatal threat.”

“Right,” Scott says.  “Right, well.  What do we have to do?  Princess, what do you need me to do?”

Kayo’s been royalty all her life, but she’s never actually had someone ask her what the next step is.  It almost makes her wish she had come up with a more thorough plan for the aftermath of her uncle’s death.  What would her father say if he were here to witness such a simplistic strategy?  God, she wishes he were here.  “The oracle stone,” she says.  “Where is the oracle stone?”

Virgil stands, searches.  It doesn’t take long before he dashes towards the base of the stairs and fetches a round green stone from a pile of rose petals.  When he comes back up the steps, he holds it out for her to see.  Even the sight of it makes everything feel so much heavier.  “Smash it,” she says.

And before the words even reach Virgil’s ears, Scott swipes it out of his hands and chucks it at the ground.  All of them watch as it shatters into six even pieces, skittering across marble.

She looks up.  Her stars still fall.

“Damn,” she says.  “Dammit.  That’s all I had.”

Four princes look at her.  Each one of them blinks.

“You said you had a plan,” says Virgil.

“I said I was thinking of a plan,” she replies.  “I never said I had one that actually wor—”

The stars seem to fall faster now, striking at the sky.  Some land in the sea.  Some land in the sand.  It’s her first day out of the reflection and already she’s failed.  “I don’t know,” she says.  “I don’t know what I’m _doing_.”

“Okay,” says John, and he’s cool.  Calm.  Far too calm for the situation at hand.  She isn’t entirely sure that Prince John is actually sane.  Too many years in a library, maybe.  “Let’s just think about this—”

“There’s no _time_ to think about this,” she snarls, and she doesn’t mean to be so violent, but she’s pinned down against marble and it feels as though her bones are about to snap.  “ _Dammit_.  There’s nothing we can do.  I thought I could hold it up—I thought I could—”

“Slow down, Princess,” John says.  “I need you to relax.  If I can get Scott through twenty-five years of his curse, then I can get you through ten minutes of yours, but I need your help.  Tell me everything you know.”

“I don’t know anything!” she tells him.  “If I knew something, I wouldn’t be stuck here with the sky on my chest.  I want my father.  This isn’t fair.  I didn’t ask for this.  I was doomed from the second my ancestors claimed that damn stone.”

More footsteps, these ones weaker than the rest.  She’s only really met Gordon once, but she knows it’s him somehow.  She feels it.  Princess Penelope holds him up, one arm around her shoulders as the two of them make their way across marble.  The moon carves at his face, makes him look like a wise old sailor who’s seen the world and all the curses in it.

He leans over and plucks a piece of stone from the pile.  He flicks it in the air, catching starlight on its edges, then catches it in his palm.  “Well in that case,” he says, “maybe I can help.”

He clears his throat and pulls his arm from his princess’ shoulders.  The appraisal he gives the stone is quick and efficient, and if she didn’t know any better, she might think that he actually knew what he was doing.  “I’m stealing this from you—hope you don’t mind.  Spend all my time fighting off those damn pirates, it was bound to rub off on me.  I, Gordon Tracy, officially claim this fragment of the oracle stone as my own.  It is mine now, and any consequences that may come with that are welcome and—”

He’s pinned to the ground before he can even finish, eyes wide and breaths thin.  “Oh.  Oh wow, you’re not kidding.  That sure does knock the wind out of your sails, doesn’t it?”

Instantly, she feels the sky lift from her chest.  It returns to the weight that she’s so used to—that bearable half she once split with her uncle—until Prince John finds another piece.  “And I claim this piece,” he says, and when he drops, it is only to his knees.

Scott gathers the rest of the pieces, tosses one to Virgil, then Alan, and holds onto one for himself.  Each of them makes their claims and, with the power now split six ways, the sky is lighter than Kayo has ever known.  She can’t help but wonder if her father ever knew such relief.  She hopes he did.  She hopes that with death came weightlessness.

She looks up at Alan, who shrugs like he hasn’t just taken on the weight of the cosmos.  And actually, he hasn’t.  He’s only taken on part of it.  It’s easier, when they don’t have to do it alone.  “It’s like I told you,” he says, still smiling at her.  Always smiling. “You’re stuck with us now.”

She smiles back at him, catching her breath, orienting herself to this new feeling.  It’s surreal, to exist without such a weight.  Like she could float away, right then and there.  Her head spins, dizzy with change, and so she joins Alan as he looks up at the stars and remembers what it feels like to be human.


	56. To Find What Happens Next

“Where are we going?”

Scott is not the first to board the ship, but he is the first to ask the question.  The stars no longer fall from the sky, Gaat no longer stands on his shores, and for the first time since he can remember, the kingdoms are not at war.  Perhaps it’s only natural for the young prince to wonder what comes next.

“You don’t always have to be going somewhere, Scott,” says Alan, and it’s strange to think that Alan has answers for him these days.  “Sometimes you owe it to yourself to just slow down—stop and smell the roses, y’know?“

“But our people,” Scott says.  “The wedding.”

“Not to state the obvious or anything,” says Alan, “but our people just saw the princess profess her undying love for Gordon.  I really don’t think there’s going to be a wedding today.”

Gordon laughs, making his way across the deck.  “Well, I don’t know about that,” he says.  He turns his head, calls over his shoulder towards the three young ladies who crowd around the helm.  “Hey, Penelope!  Marry me?”

“I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it,” she calls back, and then she turns to the ladies at her side, the three of them giggling.

Gordon’s grinning by the time he turns back to Scott and Alan.  “That’s a yes,” he says.  “Trust me, I speak fluent Princess.”

Their laughter sparkles in the night and there’s a chill in the air that crawls up Scott’s spine.  He glances up at that holy trinity, three angels at the helm, and his eye catches one in particular.  She’s not royalty, but she stands tall among princesses, and this time she doesn’t even have to land a punch in his gut for him to feel it.  It occurs to him that perhaps the question has less to do with where his is going and far more to do with who he’s going with.

“And also,” says Gordon, plucking Scott out of the heavens and pulling him straight back down to the deck of Captain Carter’s ship.  “I want to say thank you.  For saving my life and all.  I trusted Gaat—I don’t know why I trusted Gaat, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, and it hangs there for a moment, stuck in between them.  “I’m sorry that I put you in a position where you felt like you needed to trust people like Gaat.”

It’s strange, talking to one another with such civility.  The pair of them have have only ever been at odds, but it’s different now.  Everything’s different now.  Gordon nods, once, as if accepting the fact. “Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, well.  Thanks for that.”

“Are we good?” Scott wants to know.

“If by that you mean, ‘is Gordon going to ignore the fact that I cursed him to an eternity at sea?’ then no.  I’m bitter, I’m damn bitter, and you’re never going to hear the end of it.”  He’s not kidding, Scott knows, but there’s also a little bit of a smile on his brother’s lips.  “But I don’t want to fight anymore, Scott.  We just ended a war.  I’m tired of fighting.”

Gordon flinches when Scott lays a hand on his shoulder.  There’s years of fighting in that single tick.  “Me too,” he says.  “No more fighting, but Gordon?”

“Yeah?”

And Scott looks at his brother—really looks at how old he’s gotten.  Gordon’s always been too old for his age, even if he doesn’t always show it.  “Never stop arguing with me, okay?”

A grin.  “My pleasure.”

“Okay, you two.  Get a room.”

Gordon sometimes wonders how long it’s been since he heard John’s voice.  They exchange notes and letters often enough.  Gordon hears John through all his idiosyncratic writings—the way he conjugates his sentences or inexplicably spells color with a _u,_ but nothing else.  John has a voice in Gordon’s head, but over the years it’s become little more than an adaptation of his own.  To actually hear it—to hear how the words line up with his inflections, to hear how it’s changed since they last met.  Well.  Gordon’s seen a lot of magic in his travels, but this may just take the cake.

He takes a breath and wonders if it’s the same for John.  Wonders if his own voice is something of enchantment.  “Hi, John.”

John smiles.  Must be magic.  “Hello, Gordon.”

That’s all it takes, really.  It’s all they’ve wanted for so long.  Passing waves through tower windows just hand’t done each other justice, and now they’re here.  Together.  Finally.

When he was younger, Gordon’s hugs used to be these big, monstrous things that could stop an entire army in its tracks.  John’s relieved to know that at least this much hasn’t changed about his no-longer-little brother.  

And Gordon’s definitely not crying, but if he were, he’d be completely within his rights.  It’s been a long day.  He was _actually dead_  not even an hour ago.  He’s earned the right to a few tears.  Which is not to say that he’s crying.  Definitely not.

“Did you see her?” John asks.

There’s no question in Gordon’s mind about who _she_ is, but still he hesitates.  He isn’t sure of the answer.  His mother had been there—he’s sure of it—but he hadn’t seen her.  He hadn’t spoken with her.

Gordon thinks of Parker, and that old story he likes to tell, and wonders if he tells the story for his own benefit, or if he tells it to bring comfort to old sailors.  “Yeah, John,” he says.  “Yeah, I saw her.  She told me everything’s gonna be okay.”  He leaves two pats on his brother’s back.  “From now on, everything’s gonna be okay.”

Suddenly there’s a third party in the hug, big arms wrapped around both boys.  “This is nice,” says Virgil, pulling them both in close.  “This is really nice, having everyone together like this.”

“So nice,” John agrees through a strain.

“Hey, Virg.  You know would would be even nicer?” says Gordon.  “Breathing.”

“You can breathe when I’m done,” says Virgil, undisturbed.  “Right now, I’m hugging my brothers.”

“Virgil, c’mon,” says Scott.  “Ease up a little.”

“No.”

And it’s like Scott’s been slapped in the face.  It’s a single expression of cold, stark realization.  “What?” he says.

John realizes immediately what’s just happened, but he has to blink a few times to make sure he isn’t just imagining it.  Scott, after all, is the brother who’s always been there.  John knows Scott better than he knows himself, and if there is any one word that Scott Tracy rarely hears, it’s _no_.

He breaks away from the hug, stares at his brother.  “Scott,” he says, caution bleeding from his voice.  “Scott, tell me to do something.”

Scott nods.  His arms are out to the side, as if trying to catch his balance.  “John, stand on your head.”

“No.”

“Jump in the ocean.”

“No.”

“Declare the library as it’s own sovereign nation.”

“Well that one I might actually do—”

“ _John_ —”

“No,” he says one more time, and he’s laughing now.  They both are.  “No.  I’m not going to do any of those things.  I’m not going to stand on my head, I’m not going to jump in the ocean, and you are not getting _one more spoonful_ of my _damn_  pudding.”

“I’m not taking any more of your damn pudding.”

“Guys, look!”  Alan’s at the head of the ship now, looking out at the stars like he has so many times before.  This time is different, though.  This time, he is not alone.  When he points at the sky, he does not waste time worrying whether or not his brothers will believe him.  “Is that… what is that?”

The rest of the brothers join him, racing up the steps two at a time so that they can get a better view.  Behind them, Kayo collects the stars and hangs them back in the sky.  She smiles when Scott looks back at her.  “It’s a rose, Alan,” Scott tells him.

“So that your legend may live in the sky, and all who ask may know,” she says.

John and Alan stand at the tip of the ship, wind in their hair, eyes towards the heavens.  Gordon has Penelope’s hand in his own, talking to John about something so inconsequential that he’s sure to forget about it before the night’s end, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s John, and they’re talking.  Finally talking.  Virgil stands at the helm with Jane, asking her every question he can about the world outside of Melchior, and Scott?  Scott stands with Kayo, the two of them looking after this new family they’ve pieced together, each of them wondering how they possibly managed to be alone for so long.

“Isn’t it everything you ever wanted?” Kayo wonders.

“No,” Scott says.  “It’s more.”

“Are we going to be okay?” she asks again.

It’s one hell of a question.  Scott’s not sure he has an answer.  Oracle stone or not, the future is unpredictable.  This could all end tomorrow.  It could all end a week from now.  Will the kingdoms still be at peace in ten, twenty, thirty years?  Scott doesn’t know.

But he does know that, whatever happens, he’s got them.  He’s got brothers.  He’s got friends.  They’ll face it together, this questionable future, and the weight of the sky won’t feel so heavy.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, we’re going to be just fine.  What’s that thing they say?  Happily ever after?  Yeah.  That’s us.  We’ll all live happily ever after.”

And so Scott says.  So it shall be. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Blow on Queen Susan's Horn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058206) by [WinterSwallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSwallow/pseuds/WinterSwallow)




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